One Foot Here, The Other There

With one foot still here, and another heading towards there, I’m in the safe house for the geographically schizophrenic. The airport.

As I walked my luggage on all four wheels through Hamad International I marvelled at how our new suitcases are easier to push/pull than the beagle on a morning stroll. I pulled out my passport, spoke the language of aisles and bulkheads and made my way though laptops out, belts off, look directly towards the mirror please M’am.

My mother has a new hip and a, erm, how do I say this? A traditional husband? A man of his vintage? And an enormous house with floors to be cleaned and meals to be cooked. She sounds a million miles away when I speak to her in her hospital bed. “You should go and be with her Mummy” the little travellers assured me yesterday “we’d do it for you”.

My sister and I have giggled over Skype many times over the past few days. In the way that only sisters can when speaking with a mutual understanding over their mother’s love of control.

I sit and double check my hand luggage for the keys to the beach house and the Australian cash and credit cards, our life there. Only to wonder if the third little traveller left his backpack in my car. Will he remember to take his bracelet out of the console to pay for his lunch? I haven’t organised the fairy bread for International Day – the email to the netball coach or the red check in folder for the youngest traveller – the here.

And so the transition begins. Here will become there, there will become here. Time zones crossed, road rules switched, weather adjusted.

This is Kirsty from Australia, this is Kirsty my friend from Qatar.

Here and There.

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