Away from her

"What was I thinking, when I said it didn't hurt?"
-Wilco

My dad is an airline pilot and when I was a kid, and he would go away on trips, I would pack and sneak elaborate snacks into his suitcase when he wasn't looking. Snacks made of delicacies such as Chips Ahoy! cookies and swiss rolls, things that undoubtedly could not be had in far-off places such as Chile or Calgary.

In my mind, these carefully packed bundles were sure to provide some small, cherished comfort that would serve to ease was must surely be the worst possible pain of all - being away from me. So imagine my dumbfounded confusion when I padded, slippered and pyjama-ed down the hall early one morning, to slip one of my carepackages into his flight bag, and there lay the startling, sweet evidence that my existence was not all-consuming on the other side of the world. Maybe not even at home. The four, chocolate chip cookies and homemade brownies (I had really outdone myself that time) from last week, remained untouched - their love and reassurance untapped.

It's funny, how you can feel like a six-year old girl in a 26 year-old woman's body when someone who means so much, too much, really, lives on the other side of your country. How you can be reduced to a cookie-pushing mess unable to see, unable to grasp, how that someone, can be ok, being without you. And you somehow manage to hold back from infusing their dusty corners, and you smile smiles that are too bright. And no one notices but you.

And so, and maybe some space, Heather. And California, maybe, Heather. El Dorado. And can you watch my dog, can you feed her, walk her, love her? What about the grey, what about the yellow? And is my hair ok? How about these shoes? You think? And my ticket, the airport, five-thirty, really? And, of course, of course. Oh, but of course. There is gas in the car and money for pizza if you want, and the wine-opener is in the righthand drawer. Oh, and there are cookies in the cupboard.