Gulf: part of an ocean that extends into land. A deep chasm, an abyss. A wide gap.

For a week I walked the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. I moved to its tides, trod sand beaten by its motion, found shells tossed by its waves.

Now I’m facing another gulf, the kind that yawns between vacations and regular life. No more palm trees and ocean breezes. No more living outside of time.

The jet’s descent left my ears so clogged that the world has been muffled and distorted since I arrived home last night. Until I walked outside and heard the cicadas this morning. Their clatter and racket pierced even my blunted hearing. They bridged the gap between vacation and real life. Listening to them, I knew I was home.