Even airports are more relaxed on Sunday mornings. The place is full, but no one is running across from the carpark or pushing their way to the front of the queue.
‘Wish I was getting on a plane and going to Spain,’ I say.
‘Well,’ the mister says, ‘Come through Abu Dhabi on the way and we can go to Spain.’
‘Oh, no, I want to go alone.’
He laughs. It is a proper laugh and I wonder how he does it. How he loves a person who is so often absent, who so often retreats. It seems never to injure his love for me, never to bruise his heart.
Anyway, it isn’t true. I don’t want to go to Spain. The thought of that takes me by surprise, although the truth of it does not. It is time for me to be still. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? That’s why I’ve moved back to Adelaide. To bury my roots in something more than sand.
From writer, Tracy Crisp in “Sunday” on her blog, naive psychologist.