I could rave about my wonderful time in the States. I could post oodles of pictures that prove I have the cutest nieces and nephews in the world. (And I do, by the way. Don’t try to argue.)
It was wonderful: a belated Christmas celebration, lots of food, church and friend fellowship, a helicopter ride, little people love, morning talks at the breakfast table, evening talks snuggled in fat couches, warmth, dryers, carpet, etc.
But the truth is, it’s also good to be back in Spain. It has taken a full week of not-so-good days to be able to say that.
I watched my friend frying donuts by the dying daylight. The banished cat made a puff of white against the patio door with each complaint. We ignored him. The air was heavy with the spitting oil when my friend asked about my trip to America.
“Wonderful” didn’t suffice. Both the warm fuzzies and tears were part of the wonderfulness.
So I told her and she listened.
In that sacred moment, my two worlds married, reminding me that who I am in America is who I am in Spain too.