I remember a time in which the Great Birthday Coincidence was a novelty, a source of joking amongst Jeff's family. "What, Jeff's birthday is the 16th, his sister's [Lori's] is the 18th, and this new girl's birthday is the 20th? All in October? That's convenient. Guess you'll just have one big cake then."(Yes, once, I was "the new girl.")

I've known what the title of this entry would be for two months; even though I never could quite get around to putting fingers to keyboard to bring it into being. The word "laden" whispered itself to me as fingers touched blossom, whispered to me in that insistent voice that said, no matter how long it took, the chronicle of this moment was one that would not stay wholly in my mind.

It was my seventh wedding anniversary, but the story starts several days earlier, in an airport standing next to a man who, unbeknownst to me, had a plan.

* * * * *

I hugged Jake at the airport, marveling at his ability to take a cross-country flight and come out looking just as neat and calm as he must've looked upon boarding the plane. Through a screwup, I hadn't met him on his way to baggage claim as I'd originally intended; he was already at baggage claim by the time I found him.

Between dim sum tomorrow afternoon and my flight home on Thursday, I have no plans. No real plans, anyway, the kind with dates and times and directions. I have a list - a list of places I think I might enjoy seeing, and a guidebook that seems to have solid recommendations so far.

I know I'd like to have a drink with Matthew's brother Daniel, since we haven't seen each other since we were teenagers, and I'm curious to see how much we think we've changed.

I know that I'd like to see Crutcher and Theresa, but I don't know if our schedules will coincide.

It was supposed to be a quick, easy trip last week. Out on Sunday, back on Wednesday. I took Jeff to the airport as part of a small gaggle of guys who needed to get back to the airport (which, I might add, is a story in its own right). Back on Wednesday, we figured.Except that, as business trips are wont to do, things changed. Wednesday became Thursday, which became a cross-country flight home on Friday so that he could put his affairs in order to pick up a flight back on Monday, with the understanding that this trip might be as long as 14 days.

It is Wednesday evening. He is still there. As of today we now know that Jeff will need to stay for a third week.

Recently overheard by the dust bunnies in the computer room:

Is it confetti in the air, a word thrown amidst showers of sparkles, ephemeral and trifling but no less beautiful for its fleeting nature? Or is it the secret word of last resort, pried out with crowbars and truth serum, held back until end-stage relationship warfare for fear of its misuse? Does it fall from your lips the moment it is thought, or is it the unsaid knowledge that burns behind your eyelids, shimmering into your vision every time its object is seen?

What does it take to trigger the word 'love' from your lips? Is it an easy breath shared with friends; a sweaty, sexual gasp; a solid familial or marital reassurance? There is no unsaying, no retraction; does that knowledge of permanence make the words easier to scatter to the wind or infinitely more dear?