I travel more now than I used to. One week a month, sometimes more.

I'm always cutting it close. Always thankful for TSA PreCheck. Always moving through this place like I've memorized the floor plan — because at this point, I probably have.

But airports always make me think of her.

"WE'RE GOING TO MISS IT!!"

"We have plenty of time."

"THE PLANE LEAVES IN 6 MINUTES!!"

"Yeah. Plenty of time."

She runs like the plane will leave without her personally. Like the pilot knows her name and has decided, specifically, not to wait.

She is not a morning person. But she's a teacher, so the mornings belong to her whether she wants them or not.

Her alarm goes off before the sun does. She drags herself out of bed like she's being pulled from a shipwreck. Meanwhile, I am asleep. Peacefully. Blissfully. For hours more.

She'll come around. She always does. But the morning belongs to the glare.

She called me at 7 in the morning. She'd fallen down the basement stairs.

I don't remember the drive. I just remember being there.

She was okay. Bruised and embarrassed and trying to make jokes about it before I'd even checked if anything was broken.

We installed a railing that weekend. We call it "The JilliRail™."

The hotel bed is enormous. I could stretch out like a starfish and still have room.

At home, I get about six inches of mattress. She sleeps diagonally, like she's trying to claim the bed for a nation she's founding.

I'd take the six inches.

She has the spatial awareness of someone navigating in the dark. At all times.

The coffee table. The doorframe. The other doorframe. The same coffee table again, twelve minutes later.

Her legs look like a map of tiny purple constellations. She's earned every one.

Oops, it looks like this website is being a silly goose!

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