Foreigner.

Homeskillets, I am tired. I worked my rear off last week at work, trying to hire a replacement, and now I've got to train her. I get off at 2 pm every day wanting a tequila sunrise. I'm too drained to even spend time with the friends I'll leave. Too tired to keep my mind engaged, my heart wanting more. I feel this strain on my relationships like little strings of elastic stretching, stretching, stretching until they break, too tired to hold on any longer. 

My life is in boxes stacked in corners. Two weeks and counting. Can I do this? Or is it too late for second thoughts? On the plus side, the cat I want to adopt in Miss. is still un-adopted. I feel guilty for hoping she goes unadopted until I arrive, pretending to be a hero. 

The urge to tell stories is coming back to me. This is probably a  good sign. I need to find my voice again, because the stories are there, scratching the underside of my skin, looking for a tear to make larger. 

I am going to miss my family terribly. I already feel incapable, unaware of the change I will soon undergo. 

A poem, to summarize. 

Sobre Transportes del Norte, Lola Haskins

He leans across the aisle, and points

out my window to a field where three

streams of water gush straight up.

Agua caliente, he says. De la tierra.

We are nearing Zamora. The bus

slides by the blue wall of the plastics

factory. PRD, says the wall. And, 

PRI. All Mexico is coming to a boil.

Yo so de Salinas, he says. California.

He pulls his wallet out of his jeans,

scratches his undershirted stomach,

and passes me three folded sheets.

See? he says. Tickets. They are damp

from riding under him. Drunk driving

he says proudly. One more, and they

put me in jail. I like cerveza too much.

And he grins, and his teeth are so white

I think they would glow in the dark.

He folds the papers, leans back, puts

them away again. We are passing 

fields of maguey, full of broken glass

which glitters in the sun. I am foreign.

There is so much I do not understand.