home, day 1

i am in anchorage. nothing has changed. it feels right. people are so much friendlier, more open. i got hugs from people i haven't seen in 5 years. they remembered me. i almost cried when descending into the grey. the trees are so much shorter, the colors so much more subdued. and darwin's smelled the same. i bought photographs from a smiling older man who complimented my chipped nail polish. the train took forever to cross spenard. the mckay building is now minty green and respectable. nothing changes. and i fucking love that.
her kids are calling me 'auntie brynn.' they are cool as hell, articulate and saucy, charming, making me feel honored with their attention. i think about having a 2 year old of my own. stop that tangent before it becomes too painful. think about the sunlight flooding my farcical seattle lair this morning, my breath visible through damp downtown streets scented of bacon and ambition. think about that. think about too many cups of tea, foreign languages babbling into cell phones, the stylized graffitti along the bus route, the glossy appearance of anything from afar. trading the woman beside me on the plane my hot nasty sausage-thing for her skittles. multiple sudoku puzzles. snow falling like an afterthought. the upstairs window of the i am house. 7-month-old drooly fists pulling my hair. and through all of it, feeling that strange tenuous flux between crying and hopping around elatedly. this is exactly what i wanted. and yes, anchorage is very fucking small, smaller than i expected.