Packing

No matter how hard I try, I know when packing for a trip, I'll end up forgetting something. It probably won't be anything obvious, like my glasses or medications. I'll remember my camera and a few books. Clothes aren't a problem. Count the days, figure out how many outfits are needed. It's not like we dress up. 

There are a few awkward decisions, of course. Can we really drive all the way to California without my guitar? Can I live without my computer for two weeks? That means my manuscript edits will take me hours—maybe days to transfer to my writing program when I get home, rather than doing them as I go. Right now I red-line outside on the deck, then bring my pages inside and change the manuscript on the computer and make a back up copy immediately. I'm obsessed.

Beyond the decisions, though, and the obvious things that are always packed, are pesky items, never the same, that I manage to remember somewhere about four hours from home. I'm trying to remember them now and make a list. The car charger for the cell phone is one we've forgotten in the past. Last time we had it on the list, only to find we left the cell phone behind. My sister's Christmas present definitely needs to go with us. It's breakable, and I don't want to risk putting it in the mail. 

I'm gazing across the foothills from my happy place here in the living room. It's obvious why I forget to pack things. They all belong here, like me. It's just so difficult to get the people I love to pack up their belongings and come here instead. Especially Mama, since she's nearly eighty-eight. I used to love traveling. Part of me still does, but most of me loves home more. Maybe I'll pack in a day or two.