Sometimes I try to leap ahead of myself and guess what small things I will miss. The afternoon light coming off the lake that vaults through the arc of hotel windows. Hurling expletives and my body through the kitchen's swinging doors. The satisfying gurgle of drinks being released through the pouring spout. The shape and movement of a dozen people that move across the floor in concert with the only two speeds a restaurant knows: frantic and paralyzingly slowly. Sometimes I imagine my empty bed, piled high with comfort and sweet memories. Or the last remnants of my constantly shedding hair stirring under someone's broom. Sometimes I wonder how it will look to see my feet (un-socked once again) walking on an unfamiliar street. Or how my hand will look inside the first strange handshake. Or how my laundry will blow in a different wind. And sometimes I just wonder: When we leave places where we are loved - What are we going towards?