The snow has arrived, after days of weather alerts. The high school calls
to cancel classes. Jen is standing by at the Detroit airport. Margie writes
to postpone lunch. Steph sends a photo of her socks and a mug reading “Driftless.”
I picture certain liminal geographies as portals of potential. Other times, the space
looks flat and featureless, a bland span of inertia pockmarked only by the sound of a
fridge door opening and closing, a tea whistle, the stiff uncrossing of limbs on a couch.
Wherever you are, I hope you remember there is nothing that needs doing, until it does.
Your magnum opus is riding the conveyer belt and will stay there until you spot it from
the lineup of neighboring luggage, its telltale ribbon fluttering. Whatever you do,
don’t leave the terminal without it.