Realizations upon return from vacation

When you cook everyday, you begin to remember how easy it is, and so when you come home you go right to the market and get a lot of food for the whole week, even though it's really heavy to carry home. And when you spend your time breezily passing between houses, stopping to sit at the table outside on the deck (to enjoy a cup of coffee or an early evening glass of wine) you come home and realize how much of every day you pass indoors, trapped within walls, sheltered from the sun. And when you spend hours submerged in salt water, riding waves, and feeling the hot grit of tiny rocks and baby shells against your soles, you come home to discover your shower tastes dull, and you don't feel wet in the same way, and your feet won't go back into shoes not matter how hard you squeeze them. And when you read two-and-a-half books and barely watch TV (except for bits of baseball) and don't touch a computer or a cell phone for more than a week, you return to find that staring at a monitor for nine hours makes you feel nauseous and dizzy and tires your eyes and you wonder if maybe you'll be blind in twenty years from spending your days staring at pixels instead of moors, waves, and stars. And when you catch and grill bluefish for your grandparents' 63rd anniversary party (and also make a chocolate cake) and you look at everyone gathered — from the youngest at four to the oldest at 87 — you realize which things to hold close (so very very close) and which to cast away.