I gave it my best shot.

Fortunately, I haven't been dreaming. I've been crying, but not crying myself to sleep, crying red eyed and puffy staring at the ceiling, wondering how a heart can break so many times. Wondering why it feels like I've been punched in the gut over and over.

I daydream instead. I fantasize that hundreds of white doves carry me away and put me down somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Over the holidays I spent the night on the floor of LAX airport after two of my flights were canceled. LAX is an appropriate place for the broken of spirit and heart. Everyone is weary. We sleep with our heads on the floor with the exception of the lucky ones who packed cute moon shaped pillows in their carry-ons. I sleep on my tiny Coach bag having forgotten to take a decent carry-on, cursing my sense of good fashion. My hair branches out over the floor amongst dust bunnies and Starbuck stains. I refuse not to be bitter. We traveling refugees are the damned.

My niece Lia is with my family when I do finally make it to the Sea-Tac airport in Seattle, crusty eyed and cursing. At three she is precocious. She tells me that she dreamed a burgler stole my seat on the plane but she saved me by sticking a candy cane in his mouth.