Atta girl. I’m glad you are coming out of the fog. I believe this happens every summer to you and I. As a matter of fact, I went back and read some old emails around this time and sure enough . . . there it was. The End of the Summer Blues just hanging out . . . waiting to suck. Here we go mourning what’s to come later. It’s a bit of a natural progression of things I suppose. Tomorrow I’m having breakfast with Marilyn and the babies before they catch their flight. I’ll bring a large box of tissues. Ever since I was a young girl (age 4), I would cry when I took people I loved to the airport. But I always hid it because I didn’t want my older sister (who was a bit of a meanie growing up) to tease me relentlessly. So I would sit in the back of my Mother’s minivan car (Dodge Caravan Voyager with wood paneling on the sides), hiding my tears because I knew I should feel completely ridiculous then (especially knowing that my Father would be back from California in a week). I can’t stop feeling ridiculous crying at the airport, but yet I’ll never stop crying at the airport. And therein lies the problem. I’m sure Marilyn is crying too thinking about how long their trip is home.
DC –> Boston –> London –> Nairobi –> Mobasa.