The sun was pushing hard through the space between the thick curtains.
"Where am I?"
I looked at the glowing green numbers hoping they would give me a clue. I was inside an unfamiliar house and this small bed was latching on to me with it's heavy sheets. Not home. Motorcycle. Lawn chairs in the garage. Casey's family. Oh yeah, Illinois.
It was Easter morning in Illinois. He has risen. I should shower.
I cleaned up quickly after wondering throughout the duration of my glorious shower what time it was in this foreign state. I never wear my watch in the shower. I wondered who was up and if I had missed out on the family activities of the family that was not my own. If it was late and I had over slept, then I needed to walk down stairs and act like I had been awake for awhile. I cleared my throat and hummed a few notes to get the scratch out.
The smell of cabbage rested on the bottom stair. I would later find out that cabbage and sausage was an Easter tradition. I liked this tradition. The kitchen was empty so I continued on to the back yard where the grass was green and the ham was smoking. I felt my toes on the grass, which is rare. Normally I wouldn't have noticed the feeling of the grass, but I was on a cross country trip and noticing was the whole point.
Little Caden wanted to sit on the motorcycles in the driveway. Front seat. Back seat. White bike. Front. Honk horn. Black bike. Front seat. Back seat. Now multiply this by seventeen, and the fact that I hadn't eaten. "The bikes can't be sat on anymore or we will hurt them." This was a lie, of course. I chunked this sweet kid's eggs in the tall grass and grabbed a drink. I'm kidding. We had a lovely game of Easter egg hunting in the afternoon sun.
We left later that evening for Casey's other grandparents who lived down the interstate. The white lines tremolo-ed against the black. My hands soaked up the cold to my bones and my teeth rattled in my helmet. I would shake my legs at stop signs and tuck my hands under my inner thigh. Gosh, that was a cold night. But we arrived to the other house in time for ice cream.
Parking your motorcycle in a garage where you don't have to unload ever little piece of gear makes you feel like royalty. You people with those fancy gadgets called doors that close and lock have it easy. I looked through some of the old tools that hung on the walls. That wood plane hadn't moved from its spot in years.
"Oh my god! Oh my god!" Grandma Giessen said in her Chicago-native accent as she hobbled out into the garage and saw the motorcycles.
My notes from this day:
"Get people together often. Always eat outside when you can. People are all that matters. Lauren's tired voice warms my heart. I love her. I will tell her soon."