Sometimes, after a travel, I come home and I grieve. I didn’t recognize this as grief until Richard died two summers ago. Until I was able to finally name that feeling that I felt sometimes as grief: that mix of sadness and despondency and flakiness and flightiness with a dash of mania. This we call grief. I travel and then I am “home” and as much as I enjoy my smells and my clothes and my bed and the driver’s wheel in my palms, there is something else that gets tucked into my chest that nips at me. There is something else I feel in the midst of that relief that slowly seeps out as I do the laundry and walk the aisles of the grocery store. It is some goodbye I am processing. Some other shore of a life I am passing up. Something in me that recognizes that whatever I had before I went and whatever I felt while I was gone is in some way out of reach now, and maybe forever lost. It trails behind me like a ghost and I am left with an absence, with a gaping. I am left staring at the words without reading them, staring off into space without seeing, scratching at my skin without relief. Missing what I had when I never had it. I am sad.