Alone (note to axe murderers: disregard)

The presents were bought, the tickets were nonrefundable, and so we flew to Oahu for my mother's birthday, which we celebrated in a pile of construction debris and Thai food containers. The boys were kept behind to finish renovation, and I was mailed back to Maui by myself to face a week of work and house hunting. I sat in the back seat between my sons and gripped their knees as we drove to the airport in the small blue VW - which may soon catch a barge over to replace the Chevy. And it is stick-shift. I decided to spend my week of isolation lifting weights and doing chin-ups, as this certainly means that I will also be needing to behead zombies and punch sharks (things, like driving stick, I also claim I would be able to do in a crisis). My superstitions are competing to determine which would cause less disaster; complaining about how everything can eat a bag of dicks and die in a fire, or greeting the challenge with optimism and manic enthusiasm. Opting to squint at it suspiciously and wait, for now.

After the initial grief of being left at the curb while my children cried and pressed their hands to the car windows, I broke into a state of emotional detachment. Walked across the tarmac to a roller skate on wings. The flight attendant appeared to be a young marine who had been plucked from a bar during his third shot of Cuervo and draped in a limp plastic life vest. The rattles of turbulence didn't bother me (and I once tried to steal valium from my cat on a bumpy plane ride). Found the car, paid up for parking, and drove to the grocery store for a cart load of Spinster Chow; fruit, Lean Cuisine, diet soda, beer, cat food. Drove home, listening to a Dean Koontz novel and skipping ahead through all the sappy bits.

So I'm here. With the cats and the quiet and all the pillows (also: locked doors and pepper spray), writing up lists and plans and sad emails to delete.