I flew somewhere close to 120,000 miles last year.
Think about it. That's something like 250 or so hours of flying.
And on around 125 of those hours, I'm leaving my family.
I'm leaving the only woman I've ever loved. The girl who I met on a sunny day at a friend's house while mowing his yard. The young lady who looked past my shortcomings and found something in me that was good. The woman who brought two amazing children into our lives. The wife whose touch makes the outside world melt away.
I'm leaving my son. The infant who mouthed my knuckle 20 minutes after being born. The toddler whose laugh would make you cry at the sheer happiness he expressed. The young boy who cried last week because he "loves his sister so much".
I'm leaving my daughter. The baby whose birth was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed. The child whose intelligence astonishes me to this day. The little girl whose smile in the morning is enough to eradicate all the bad dreams and stress.
That's the bad news. Those are the hours when I stare out the window at the world below, clutching a small race car my son has given me for that trip to keep as a memento.
But with every sorrow, there's a sweetness just around the corner. That's the flight home.
Those hours pass by so slowly, as I await the moment I land. Each mile that passes as I drive home brings me closer to them, and closer to becoming whole again, as I walk back into our house and inhale.
And as I let that breath out, the distance has been closed between my family and I. We are whole again.
