I head north on Troost en route to my temporary home. I could take the Paseo. Certainly, that would be more direct. But I crave the vista which says Kansas City to me. I pass Operation Breakthrough, then the health department. Ahead I see the bridge with its burning globes. I stop, glance, snap, and then inch forward with one eye on the rear view mirror. God forbid that this vehicle should sustain impact three days before my departure. No; the street stands empty, and then I freeze a nocturnal glimpse of my beloved the city, a solitary woman standing on the banks of the river, up to date with her towers, her spires, and her Christmas lights.
My path forward takes me through a stretch of industry, and a few blocks eastward. Then I’m headed north again, past Admiral and around the sweeping bend where mansions bear a cloak of garland in honor of the season. Soon I pull into the driveway of my incredibly tolerant host and I am home, or what welcomes me as home in my semi-homeless state. A flutter of papers in the glove box tell the world that I live on Noland Road in Independence. In truth I live nowhere, or everywhere, or anywhere, taking deep breaths and huge steps towards whatever plan the universe allows me to think that I’ve made.
I rap on the door, beneath the light, fatigue settling in my bones just as my bones in turn begin to sink into the cement under foot. Then a smile greets me. I skirt the pile of my belongings which crowds the foyer and dump my pocketbook on the chair. My companion murmurs, a pleasant hum. I think, Not for me, the happy life. Happy husband, happy wife. A bit of it perhaps: A week of this domesticity before I venture into the wilds of California. Water simmers on the stove for tea. I take off my coat. My host gestures to a chair, asking about my day, speaking of his. Suddenly all that matters is the here and now. Everything else can wait.
It’s the thirteenth day of the forty-eighth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.