ORD

A series of incidents, and my mother's voice on the phone says "isn't this always the way when it's you traveling?" I can't help but see her point. My father paces anxiously in the background, because at times like these I am at once still the child he pushed out of the nest and the one he never quite could let go. Chicago lies under a blanket of lightning as I find a quiet terminal corner and settle in for the night. There'll be another chance to get home in the morning.

I do not fret. Don't they know these terminals are as much home, as any apartment ever was.