Already the last term is swinging forward. I didn't want to come back from break, because I knew it would signal the beginning of the end - an end that is already coming at me with breakneck speed.
And yet spring is rioting here in Durham. The trees are abloom, coating my car with sheen of light green powder, as sparkly as spray tan. Spring thunderstorms roll in every night, sudden lightning cracking the ceramic night sky. Sheets of water pour into the gullies and across the roads, and deliver that rich, loamy scent of dank soil into the everywhere air.
I am rolling through it. Ben's power was turned off while we were away. We spend the afternoon with our noses on his freezer meats, looking for danger smells. I teach for the first time in two weeks, so rusty that I can't even remember how to count them in to a waltz beat. I had missed the feel of my ballroom shoes, the movement of a spin turn, the life I had. And in between the work begins again. It is so simple now; I have begun to feel my mastery of it and there is, somehow, time for everything.
My mind is still straddled across two time zones. I want to sleep at 8pm, and wake at 3am, and yet when the alarm goes off I am so groggy that I let it beep and beep and beep. How alive am I? My formerly jobless classmates are being hired, and I am still drifting. Africa is on the horizon, and many other adventures, but all I want to do is remain in this springtime that suddenly feels infinite and welcoming, that feels dizzyingly like the only home I have.