volver: to return.

The squeal of the rubber touching the runway initiates the acclimation into a familiarly foreign world.  NASA would call it re-entry.I spent three months in Mexico. Three months is a drop-in-the-bucket for anyone with a lunch break. Yet an endless flash of faces and moments flow through my mind as I drift aimlessly in the customs line.  The pre-paid cell phone heats up with neglect as messages from long ago come to life. My ears bounce around like a pin ball as spanish is replaced with english. I feel them almost shunning their ability to comprehend all the side conversations with such ease.

I recognize my backpack on the carousel. The long wooden stick belonging to my newly acquired hammock chair is desperately clinging to the side straps.  My mind's eye takes a wide-angle snapshot. The dull, lifeless backdrop of baggage claim provokes the realization that it's not the chair I wanted to take with me. It was the feeling of watching the sun rise over the ocean, of being cupped in thick, cotton netting. Suspended in air. Suspended in time. Suspended in the beauty that is life.

Now under the night lights of a lonely Oakland metro station I stand idly gazing at the tracks. Watching a mouse feed on the remains of an expired pigeon. Lost in thought. Wondering about my next (un)scheduled departure. Or as NASA might say- launch date.