Crested

Do you remember that feeling that you'd get every weekend as a kid -- usually sometime around Sunday afternoon -- when you'd realize that you had to be back in school on Monday? For me, the feeling always came in a moment -- my cheeks flushing with the realization and my stomach somersaulting at the thought that the precious weekend was nearly spent. A moment of angst and antagonism. Not that I hated school so badly; I just liked the weekend better, and I never wanted it to end. I would sigh and an audible groan would escape my lips: "Man, I don't want to go back to school tomorrow."

Like so much of life, the rhythm of routine created regular moments of hope and despair. The syncopation of every week would bring despair on Mondays, ambilavence on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, rising hope on Thursday and especially Friday, and blessed joy on Saturdays and Sundays. Yet, the transition from Sundays to Mondays was unavoidable -- a crest in the trail that could not be bypassed if the ascent of the next mountain were ever to take place. And after that crest is traversersed, the rest of the trail is wearied by a strange and darkening cloud of what's to come.

Sometime within the last twenty-four hours, somewhere between the sunflower fields south of Alessandria and the sloping trails beneath the majestic crumbling ruins of Santa Michele, I realized that our family's summer vacation in Italy has crested. And believe it or not, the physiological and psychological response to this realization is surprisingly similar to the feeling that I'd encounter each Sunday afternoon of my childhood. Still, it's not entirely bad. I can't ignore the growing cloud of reality darkening overhead -- but there are still hours left to enjoy on this Sunday afternoon and evening...

I just don't want to go back to school tomorrow.