Somewhere Over the Ocean--Going Home

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Tuesday, April 20, 1976 (On the plane back home)

On the airplane, finally. Somewhere over the ocean. I'm going home.

Last night was a restless night. I kept waking up to look at my watch. I'd have short panic episodes thinking my watch had stopped and I was missing my plane, but then I'd realize that I wasn't leaving until this afternoon.  The night was long: Anticipating going back home. Anxious about what I would find when I got there.

I had the most wonderful, but at times scary dream all night long.  Each time I woke up to realize it was only a dream, I would try to make myself go back to sleep so it would continue. I was hoping for a happy ending.

He was waiting for me at Kennedy airport. This man whom I thought I had lost forever was standing at the gate waiting for me. I was stunned when I saw him there. He grabbed on to me and both of us hugged like we meant it. He was crying when he said that during my absence, he had missed me. He loved me so much. I was too dear, too precious to him to let me go.

Jack was at the airport, too. But he kept changing back and forth from Jack, the little boy, to Jack, the grown man. Jack, the boy, jumped out from behind a post and starting walking beside me. He mimicked my walking by keeping step with me. I panicked. Oh, no. What was he going to do this time? What manipulative thing did he have up his sleeve to ruin this moment. I had been given another chance. I hadn't lost the love of my life after all. Jack was going to mess with my mind again. This could turn out bad.

Jack, the boy, was walking along side us as we were leaving the airport. He had a huge grin on his face. What is going on? I wondered. I pretended as if I didn't see him. He was up to something. He would disappear for awhile, then reappear. I had to ignore him. (It was when I was trying to ignore Jack when I would wake up. I needed to get back to sleep, back to the dream. I had to get past Jack or else I would do something foolish and lose him again.)

Jack, the man, was in the car with us, but only I knew it. He was in the backseat; the mischievous, up-to-something grin was gone, and he was leaning forward between the passenger and driver's seat. He was acting like a normal, well-adjusted man--not a man who was desperate and would do anything to get his lost love back. He said that he was letting me go. He could see now that I was in love with someone else. He wanted me to be happy. So he was going to back off and stop harassing me, stop following me, stop manipulating me. If there was another wedding date set, he would not come to the church, stand in the balcony, and yell at the top of his lungs. That was a promise.

When I got up this morning, I felt so good. Hunger pains were gone. My back didn't hurt. For the first time on this trip, I have a positive feeling about my future. Maybe he did miss me. How can someone fall out of love so fast? I've only been gone a month. I want to believe he'll give me another chance. What if he is waiting for me at the airport? It could happen. I'm holding on to hope that he'll be there. I won't blow it this time. I won't back out next time. I will never run away again. That is a promise.