We arrive home in the wee hours, exhausted. In whichever time zone I consider the hour it’s far, far too late for this old body to still be upright. Technically, it’s the day after we began our journey home. We stumble around suitcases and fall exhausted into bed. Unpacking will come tomorrow—or later today, depending how you think about it.
We spent the first weeks of 2020 in Playa del Carmen, Mexico. It was muggy and hot, windy and rainy and sunny, and all the things vacation should be. I read seven books and started another. I sipped lattes and scribbled in my notebook. I stood on the beach, in awe at creation, and worshipped. We spent days on the sandy beach, and others poolside at one of the quiet pools. We walked, though not as much as in years past. I rested. It was a grand way to kick off the year.
Now I’m awake after too few hours of sleep. I’m here in the dark, sipping a soy milky frothy cup of coffee (kind of missing Mexican lattes), and thinking about things it’s time to turn my attention to. The book I’m birthing. Laundry. And the impressive amount of snow on our deck Gerry will have to tend to after he picks up our girl, Maya, from the dog sitter. And that I’ll probably need a nap later.