writing home

i could write about the circus.
the way the cotton candy smell danced around the stadium and the children smiled and spun their lighted wands in the air. the peanut shells at our feet and the trapeze artists with their eyeliner and glitter.

and i could write about the food we ate. 
the creamy ricotta cheese pizza, oreo ice cream and crispy scallops. the crab cake sandwich i waited for since last february. at that little cafe by the sea, with windows on every wall. the movie popcorn and pepsi. the sweet indulgence of vacation.

or i could write about the ocean.
the emptiness of the shore in winter. the shell fragments under my bare feet and the wet sand between my toes. holding my shoes by the side of my rolled up jeans. the warm, salty wind blowing my ponytail. 


or the images. the beautiful, unforgettable images.

but really, the best way to sum up this long weekend happened on the drive back.

i had my bare feet on the dashboard. my seat leaned back. i shut my eyes and felt the sun, hidden for so long. the darkness behind my eyelids turned to a shade of honey, then amber, then ruby. and i felt the warmth on my cheek.

i turned and looked over at robert, driving us home in the sunset. and i knew. this was my favorite part of the trip. driving home together. knowing that no matter how much fun we have on vacation, nothing beats the day-in, day-out beauty of our normal life and the happiness it brings us. and trips are awesome. but no hot tub, dinner special, or late check-out time can trump the simple joy of coming home.

and that's the only thing worth writing about at all.