a sort of finish-line joy.

“{she} carries a lot of suitcases but all of them are empty because she’s expecting to completely fill them with life by the end of this trip and then she’ll come home and sort everything out and do it all again.”
story people. 

it was a fifty-pound backpack, my grandpa’s camera bag stuffed with books and a giant neon sack with stressed-out zippers.
they were filled with life
journals, postcards, ticket stubs, photographs, worn books,  film rolls.

and i was hauling them under a sign that said, “welcome to edmonton”

God nudged me as we gradually lowered into the arrivals gate on the escalator. i turned to Him as He whispered,

welcome home.

His eyes had a kick in them, a sort of finish-line joy.
so did mine.

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