When Morning Comes

I woke up this morning to find two messages: one e-mail from The Man, the other a voice message from Kiki. I wondered last night how her return home went.

The Man's flight to Yemen was uneventful. A hotel rep met him in Dubai. A driver from the office was sent to meet him at the Sana'a airport, but missed him. He took a cab, checked into a hotel, then phoned the office. The driver picked him up to take him the office to meet everyone, then back to the hotel, where he had a 12 hour sleep, interrupted by a flapping flag outside the window and calls to worship. He has arrived during the month of Ramadan. That means a shortened work day - 10 to 2 instead of 7 to 3. Maybe that is a gentle way to acclimatize to the new work and culture. Already, they've picked out a few apartments for Man to see if he wants to rent any of them for his six month stay.

The marvels of technology. Kiki sounded like she was phoning from down the street. Her flight home too was uneventful. After she left, I realized how fortuitously timed her visit to us was. She steered me to The Artist's Way, demonstrated how an artist spends her time, pointed me to liquid iron, gave The Man invaluable advice about travel procedures and what to expect at border crossings, saw me through The Man's departure. I wonder what she got out of her trip.

She probably felt taken care of, she made connections for her work, she spoke at conferences, she established an international credential in New York, she met her half sister, she had fun with us. I hope she felt at home and welcomed. That's what I want to think anyway.

And now, the hours, the days stretch out before me like endless blank pages, and me with writer's block. Good thing Kiki left me the legacy of The Artist's Way. I have to find that book.