TC steps onto the down escalator just past security at Dulles Airport. He turns back to me and waves, his soft brown eyes locking on to mine as he descends and then suddenly he is gone. Tears well in my eyes and a muffled choke comes from down deep. I quickly turn and walk away. My puppy is no more.
The taxi pulls into the drive of my Virginia home, the grass standing tall, my oldest son having failed to do his job as chief mower. Entering, the facility is in full operation, my wife is already working on dinner, "Steak or fish?", she asks. My two tax deductions emerge, mid-way in some non-stop argument that never seems to get past the mid-way point. A hug hello and the youngest one is dragging me out to go for a bike ride. A typical weekend for a married man in the suburbs. Little do they know what has transpired.
Later, exhausted from the weekend and refueled with exemplary cooking by my wife, I'm in my guest room when TC calls. His warm shy voice, my pup already misses me. I miss him too.
My job is normally about futures. Not what is, but what will be. It's not as hard as it sounds, lay out the pieces and draw a line through it to some point in the future. But perhaps it's because I refuse to draw that line that I don't wanna see what my own future will hold.
I do know that my wife & kids awoke up this morning, happy in some odd way that I am here and sometime in the next few hours in a suburb of Toronto, some toasty brown lump will finally stir, roll over and wish I were there as well. It's nice to be wanted.