Fevered

The alarm clock by my bed ticks louder, beats faster. The hours, minutes, until rising time disappear into oblivion; it will not be morning when it rings, but no matter. In the center of my room stands an open suitcase. In my pocket is an airplane ticket. Tomorrow the sun shines warmly again, tomorrow the tongues will speak a different language and the streets will lead to places unknown.

Tomorrow, we travel.

And 30 years of airplanes and trains, of homes in faraway lands and suitcases packed and lost and filled with treasure, have not diminished the jitters that course through my body the night before takeoff. Always that rush of nerves, that giggle of excitement. Always the gratitude for rubbing the eyes of your outlook, receiving a new vision of what life is. I do not go far; I do not stay for long. But even the swiftest journey shakes up my body, rattles my senses.

These jitters are perhaps the most familiar of all. I recognize myself in its comfort. I sleep with a smile on my face.