Today I'll be flying to Vancouver for a doctor's appointment. All morning I've been lying in bed, terrified to face this day. For eleven months my monthly trip to Vancouver has always been the exact same ritual for me: driving to Mom and Dad's in Rob's white truck, spending the night, seeing the doc early in the morning, then driving back to Olympia in time to get to work by 1 pm. Same thing. Same path. Every month. I could make the trip in my sleep.
Today I will arrive via the Portland airport. Kimi will thankfully be with me, as she is winding up a four day visit with us here in Spokane. Mom will pick us up, we'll drop Kim off, then head home. This time I'll pull into their driveway as a passenger, in my mom's car. My dad will be inside watching Fox News; he'll smile and say wassup kido when I walk in the door. I'll inevitably look out the window and Robby's white truck will not be in the driveway. It will hit me like a ton of bricks: tomorrow I won't be rushing off to hit I-205 northbound, I'll come back to this house; I'll be trying to just--breathe.
The next day the weight of yet another wave will crash down as I walk out to the driveway, sans white truck, and load my stuff into mom's car to head back to the Portland Airport. Finally, for the depression coup de grace, I will walk past the flights headed to Salt Lake City where I went so many, many times before, and will instead choose a gate whose flight is headed for Spokane, Washington.
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