Leaving Come, Coming Home

flightI bawled my eyes out on the plane ride back from New York this time around. Alone in the dark at 3AM. For exactly 76 minutes. I thought about my family and cried. I thought about my friends and cried. I thought about all the stoops in Brooklyn and Queens I sat on and cried. I thought about the concert I gave there, the stage banter in English flowing effortlessly from my mouth and an entire room laughing at all of my jokes. 
trajectoryCry. Eating a steak and watching deer with my Mom. Cry. Doing Kung Fu with old friends.  Cry. Ninja dance party. Cry. 4th of July, crying while looking at fireworks and was blindsided by a crazy sense of patriotism that yes, in fact, I DO love the US of A. Cry for the US of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. 
cdgBut mostly I cried because for two weeks I had felt like ME again. The one who wears no bra and flip flops and likes to sing while skipping down a Brooklyn street to get a bagel while stopping to talk to everyone about everything. The one who has giant shiny steely balls of wonder and fearless glory power (well, most of the time). 

But now I sat hurling across the Atlantic in the dark with “France” approaching closer and closer. My stomach quickly knotting, the sense of adventure gone this time around and all that is left in its place….a looming sense of isolation and incomprehension.
Bienvenue. I’m back. Sigh.


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