Saturday was a deep thought day. I wasn’t feeling great. No suffering worth empathy, but my body was tired and fighting something. Of more significance, my insides were pensive, broody, and on the slow churn sorting out my trials. I was in the girls room because: a) it has a couch, b) it was quiet, and c) unlike my room, it is warm without blankets and a winter hat.
I stayed for a while. When I stood up to go, I noticed a small sign on the floor. In pink chalk, I read the words, “fly home.”
It felt like an answer. Fly home. Maybe it’s that simple, I said.
Fly where? said my other self.
Home. Simple. No matter the darkness, sometimes we just need to fly home. I could feel my spirit’s lifting. The magic, the miracles. Here, right when I needed it, a tiny message written for me. Fly home. Even written from hand of one of my lovely children.
Which is when my other side said – Why would they write that?
I took another look.
It wasn’t a sign. It was a little black box. Click. Processing information. Click.
So yeah. “Fly,” was an adjective explaining what kind of home the box was, not a verb followed by a destination.
I pondered it all for a minute. My disgusting children who cannot be convinced that flies are disease transport vehicles with bulging eyes. The helpful results of my misread. I thought about destroying yet another bug captivity contraption, but really what’s the use? I went and got the camera.
What the heck. It was good advice all around. Flying. Home. Kids to keep your feet on the ground. There’s gold in them there hills.