“What’s wrong with the plane?” This is my husband’s response as I put my hand on his arm. He says it in a way that you would ask, “What’s wrong with the chair?” Or, “What’s wrong with the bread?” With a dull and exhausted inflection.

“The left engine isn’t getting power so we’re landing in El Paso in 15 minutes.” I yell in his left ear as the screaming child next to us who hasn’t stopped crying for the last three hours gasps for air.

I oddly can’t identify an emotion. The absolute absurdity of this entire trip has left me feeling both numb and frustrated to the point of hysterics. Having spent the last 3 ½ days in a crouching position underneath the kitchen table of my in-laws house in New Hampshire rifling through stacks of junk mail that would make you want to just cancel the USPS altogether, our vacation was not a typical vacation. It was more of a digging out, tripping over, and trying not to inhale layers of dust type of vacation. Yes, we had somehow entered a world that I had only seen on TV in a little reality show called Hoarders. Barely able to walk and learning what glutes are, I dragged my navy blue rolling bag to the airport dreaming of our little home. A home that we can walk around in.