Stowaway

Today’s draft is inspired by the feeling of the last day of a phenomenal vacation. This also has me wondering if this draft should become a poem, or a short story, or even a little illustrated zine that I give to people I love. What do you think?

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI have a ritual on the last day of vacation. I wonder if you do too? I sit somewhere quiet and beautifulfilled with the sounds and smells of the place(birdsong, ocean, humid salt air)I sip a cup of dark coffee, and I cryfor the person I am when I travel.She doesn't survive plane rides or car trips or miles-long journeys.Her joy makes her fragile,so she stays behind. Or she used to. Sitting on the patio on Molokai,watching twelve yellow hibiscus stretch towards the morning sun, I discovered she fits in the hidden pocket of my carry on.Shielded by hastily folded clothes,sandals stained with bright red sand,she can sleep undisturbed all the way home. I can't wait for the moment, just inside my front door,where I unzip my bag, put my eyes to the opening,look directly into her gemstone-green eyes,alive and waiting for me.