Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Vacationless

It wasn’t much of a vacation.
Sleeping on sinking red velvet couches.
Waking up in pain every forty minutes,
our backs screaming in protest.
Too tired to explore the day.
Walking from location to location
in a caffeinated haze.
Thoughts of canoeing,
or hiking,
or even driving to a nearby lake,
way too strenuous to contemplate.
I’d like to blame it on the couches,
but it wasn’t any better when we had a hotel room.
The Courtyard we stayed at
was attacked on Friday night by a swarm
of family reunions and weddings.
What was one a nice hotel on Thursday,
had been transformed into something resembling a Frat house
by Friday evening.
Voices laughing in rooms all hours.
Photos being snapped
trying to freeze the moment,
as if mad futuristic paleontologists
had been set loose in the hotel lobby.
A fire pit raging out of control outside my window
while voices peaked and fell
hour after horrible hour.
Each morning I woke more exhausted
than the next.
It got so bad
I started to believe I had PTSD.
I began anticipating the next
door slam,
shoe drop,
scream,
laugh,
or digital photo flash.
By Sunday morning I had large dark circles under my eyes.
It wasn’t pretty.
I must have looked really bad
because the hotel didn’t even charge us for two of the three nights.
What could they say?
What could any of us say?
We drove the 500 miles back home
in silence,
both too exhausted to speak,
both wondering where our vacation went,
both happy to be back in a real bed
where no one would be
slamming,
dropping,
screaming,
laughing,
or
flashing.