Return trip 

by Michael Murphy, Farmington Hills

He ambles through the airport, slowly. His shoes are caked with dust from the Roman Forum, his shirt is new and French, his face brown from the hot sun all over Western Europe.

He's starving and stiff and tired, but he dallies on his way to baggage claim. He wants to prolong this feeling, the transient sensation of having everything he needs on him, everyone he needs far away.

It ends. He hugs his mother and grabs his backpack. Funny. Backpacks was so important yesterday. Not anymore.

For now, home is fresh, new and familiar. Everything's different, nothing's changed.

Return to the Summer Fiction index.

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