My clothing needs are few, but I'm packing a lifetime of resentments. Lingering grudges, stale spites and smoldering indignities jostle for space among the toiletries and socks. What big opinions they have, the better to judge you by. I spend the eight-hour flight from San Francisco to New Jersey perfecting my responses to every conceivable attack on the imperfections of my life. By the time I arrive, I'm ready to defend myself on all fronts.
All guns are loaded, all safeties are off.
The visit My parents are at the airport, emanating love and warmth, welcoming their eldest daughter home, home, home. We hug and we kiss. My mother hovers close, peers in and says my skin looks good. The ride home is a time warp. I sit in back just as I did as a child, while my parents, up front in the adult seats, squabble on cue.