Inch Forty-Six: Leaving on a Jet Plane

I'm leaving on a jet plane, just like the song says.

I leave tomorrow for Portland, Oregon, to spend eight days with both of my sons, with my daughter-in-law Alise, with Alise's mom and sister, and with the one and only Ramona. To say I am looking forward to this trip is a bit of an understatement.

All the same, I hate to go, just like the song says, because Warren is not coming with me. This is a solo trip, something I have not done in many years. I will miss his companionship, his support, his presence, his love.

I imagine time will both compress and expand on this trip. On the one hand, the time with my family out there will go so quickly and all too soon I will be saying goodbye and hugging everyone and kissing Ramona one last time. On the other hand, the time without Warren will stretch out. I will be experiencing a time shift from fast to slow and back again. If I were a physicist, I would speculate about time dilation, but I don't think those formulas measure the heart.

The singer in "Jet Plane" warbles "don't know when I'll be back again." Not me.  I know exactly when I will back again.

And so does Warren.