picking up the pieces

Jetlag is killing me. I have been up most of the night at the computer, or tossing and turning in my bed. My bed. I haven’t slept in it for over eight months. It needs to get my shape again.

My room was so clean when I arrived, thanks to my wonderful parents. But it is now a mess again with everything pouring out of three suitcases.

The flight did not seem long at all. I guess I wasn’t as eager to come back as I was to get there. Luckily I did not have anyone sitting by me through the entire trip, so I could stretch my legs across three seats, listen to my ipod and reminisce about the most amazing holiday I have had in a long time. Missing the faces that kept me company for two whole months.

I met my niece, who as soon as I arrived from a long flight and an even longer immigration wait, gave me the most beautiful toothless smile I have ever seen, that it made everything worth while. Through out my trip she made me fall deeper into love with her, with everything she did – even poopie in the potty.

I met my sisters, who tried their best to make me have the best time ever – taking me out, exposing me to fantastic cuisine, making me stuff, buying me stuff (aren’t sisters fab?)

I met new friends who showed me a great time everywhere we went. Who were older than me by years, but never once made me feel uncomfortable, who were nice enough to make time for me, to get to know me, even though they weren’t on holiday.

I met a girl friend I have known for nine years, my best friend in college, and I realized that even after not being together everyday for almost three years, we picked up exactly where we left off. She showed me a super time in New York, that happy hour was the happiest.
I totally trusted her, again, with my thoughts. And I realized that she is and always will be my best friend- even if we don’t say it all the time like corny sisterhood women.

I met a guy friend from school. He was one year my junior, and was, as my memory recalls a short blue-house boy, with thick glasses, who giggled in the line going to assembly in the mornings. He’s no longer short, he doesn’t have the glasses (well actually he does, but contacts have prevailed), but deep down, he is still a little blue house boy – with traumatic childhood stories that end in him crying.
He picked me up and reached me home, introduced me to bolis and fishbowls, took me on midnight walks in a park, introduced me to trespassing on private lakes, long walks on the beach and a whole new vocabulary. And, just by being him, made the last few days of my trip, the best.

I feel as if I left bits of my heart in Staten Island, Connecticut, New Jersey and Georgia.

And now I am back in Bombay. Picking up the pieces.