It’s been a week. It’s time, the vacation gods murmur. The universe allowed you to leave, now it’s time to go back, go home.
“But I want to staaaaay….” I sing into the wind and it drifts back into my face, but far rougher than I’d released it, and I swallow the words. “You’re right,” I concede, and the consonants taste like sandpaper. “It’s time to go.”
Work hard, the spirits whisper, do your best and you can return.
We throw things in our bags un-carefully, a counterpoint to the anticipation we’d began the week with, trying to fool the lesser sprites (the ones that keep a closer watch) that it doesn’t matter. We’re fine leaving. We could stay if we wanted. We just want to go home now. Really
The car rumbles to life, noses out of the the parking lot, and turns east toward home.
What’s the first thing you do at the end of your vacation?