The Wombat Has Landed


A restless night, a blessedly uneventful flight, and I am back in Raleigh again.

I can’t say that I had an urge to break into song as soon as we touched the tarmac, but there was a definite loosening in my chest. I don’t know if it felt like coming home exactly–I’ve moved too much and too often to have an image of home as anything but a vague hazy wall on which to hang my masks–but it felt…good. Less bad. One knot drawn a little less agonizingly tight. There are other knots that are still tight, other wounds that haven’t quite bled dry–some self-inflicted, some not, when it comes to love, we’re all children with knives–but at least and at last, I’m on familiar ground.

I have a vague urge to go mark my territory at the bottom of an off-ramp, but they’d probably frown on that. This isn’t Texas, damnit. Still.

“Good grief,” said Deb, dragging my suitcases into the back of her minivan, “you look like a drowned rat.”

I can’t say she’s wrong, but I’m a drowned rat that feels a little better tonight.

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