Forgetting About Me

img_1543Another flight, another touchdown followed by applause, another visit to the place I call home.

My bathroom mirror isn’t very welcoming, never believes what it can’t see. The refrigerator makes a solid argument for ordering takeout. Our bartender at the usual spot knows what I want, but not where I’ve been.

Bet I can walk this neighborhood with my eyes closed, find my front door with my ears and palms, the way a blind woman showed me in Italy, together in complete darkness, her hands guiding mine. I could go inside, lock the door behind me, turn up the music, and never hear from myself again.

I could forget how it feels to wander around a corner not knowing what’s on the other side. To catch myself thinking in another language. To have everything exceed expectations because I never knew what to expect. To taste something so new I don’t want to stop until I understand it and the story of the old man who cooked it and the pain behind the eyes of the young woman who brought it to our table and this unfamiliar version of myself who’s busy admiring the sunset on the water behind you.

I could stay home, forget it all, and let it forget about me.

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