THE PULSE OF ANTICIPATION

Our visit to see my daughter Iva was coming to a close. Tina and I spent six days exploring Frisco, Texas, immersing ourselves in all it had to offer. We savored a variety of cuisines at local restaurants, wandered through a bustling farmer's market with unique vendors, and marveled at a botanical garden decorated with thousands of enormous pumpkins. We even watched Saturday Night at a modern movie theater. Along the way, we underwent spontaneous detours to spots we hadn’t planned on visiting, each one rewarding us with its uniqueness. On the last day of the trip, Tina even bought a pair of boots that embodied the Texas spirit.

The sun was warmer than expected for this time of year, a reminder of summer’s stubborn hold. The heat pressed down on us, limiting some of our plans, but we adapted, settling for shorter walks and a gentler pace.

Iva and Adam were gracious hosts, welcoming us warmly into their home and lives. We filled our time engaging in games, impromptu fashion shows, exploring a Virtual Reality world filled with dinosaurs, and chasing their dog Snoopy around with toys. Strolling through the neighborhood, we admired Halloween displays that blended fun, gore, and delightful bursts of creativity.

Unexpectedly, I slept better than I had in months. Iva had given us a weighted blanket for the guest room, and though I was skeptical at first, it turned out to be a wonderful experience. Its pressure felt like a lovely embrace, coaxing me into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. I was pleasantly surprised by how something so simple could make such a difference.

But on the last night, my restlessness returned, and the calm I’d felt all week gave way to a strange, unsettled feeling. The blanket’s comforting weight was still there, but my mind was somewhere else, wandering. It was just past two in the morning when I decided that I couldn't stay in bed any longer. I’d tossed and turned enough, sleep out of reach, and my mind moving forward with thoughts of the day ahead, a day of travel back home.

Lying there in the dark, memories of childhood travels came rushing back, when every trip felt monumental, like a festivity, an extraordinary event. I can see it now, so vividly in my mind's eye: feverish nights filled with joyful anticipation. Sleep eluded me then too as my thoughts spun like a restless compass needle, repeatedly pointing toward the destination—my grandmother’s house in a faraway city, with an entire summer awaiting me there, the highlight of the year.

I’d reunite with my cousins, and together, we’d run wild with the neighborhood kids, weaving through cornfields and forests until we reached the river. We’d feast on watermelons chilled in the well and venture into the city’s movie theater, so much bigger and brighter than the one in my small hometown—a whole new life. Days without expectations, just the simple joy of being kids, playing endlessly, sometimes even recklessly with unexploded bombs from the Second World War. It was freedom from the watchful eyes of my parents.

To prepare for the long travel by train, my family would rise before dawn, and in the shadow of those early hours, my father would stand in the hallway light, gripping two large suitcases. In the small Bosnian town in the 1960s, we had no car. Instead, we walked through the empty streets of Foča, step by step, all the way to the railway station at the other end of town.

Those walks felt endless. The air was cool, the streets silent, stretching ahead of us like something from a dream. I remember the sound of my mother’s voice urging my brother and me along, and my father’s figure, hurrying ahead as if there were no tomorrow, the glow of streetlamps casting him in silhouette. I was buzzing with excitement, every sense heightened, hardly able to contain the feeling that something adventurous was just about to unfold.

Back then, the anticipation of future events was something I didn’t question. It was a force that lifted me, carrying me forward before I even realized it. But as I lie awake now, decades later, I wonder: Why did my small body tremble with such frantic energy then?

I think of my parents, my father’s determination, my mother’s focus, and how their urgency seemed to seep into me. Children are like sponges, absorbing everything around them. Maybe I soaked up that anxious energy, the constant drive to avoid being late, and the thrill of visiting family and friends. Perhaps this blend of excitement and pressure became the seed of my restless state, the force that kept me from sleep, propelling me through those dark, silent streets in the dead of night.

Now, lying here, staring at the ceiling as the clock ticks forward, I am no longer a child. No external energy of others pressing in on me. The anticipation I feel belongs to me alone, not borrowed from anyone else's desires or expectations. I close my eyes, trying to surrender, to release tomorrow’s hold and sink into the present. But anticipation has its own will, slipping free like a restless traveler wandering through my mind. I feel it in my chest, tugging me out of this room, out of this moment, and into the day that hasn’t yet come, the day full of everything that might or might not manifest.

I rise and slip out of the bedroom quietly, careful not to disturb my wife’s sleep. The house is dark and still, waiting, just as I am. In this space between night and day, past and future, I find a moment where I can simply be, without rushing forward or looking back. The anticipation lingers with its soft, steady pulse, but for now, I let it fade into the background.

Suddenly, I realize I’m not alone. In the stillness of the house, a subtle awareness stirs my survival instincts. Glancing around, I notice an empty water bottle on the dining table and hear a faint creak from the backyard. Curious rather than alarmed, I open the door and look to my left. There, on the bench in the darkness, sits a familiar figure. The dog is there too, lifting his head at my arrival before lowering it again to sniff the grass, his nose close to the ground as he searches for rabbits to chase.

I go to sit beside the man of the house, the two of us bound by an unspoken understanding, two insomniacs unwilling to disturb those still lost in dreamland. He is as restless as I am, caught somewhere between anticipation and exhaustion, mindful not to wake my daughter, just as I’d been careful not to disturb my wife. In a few hours, he’ll be driving us to the airport.

In all the fourteen years we’ve known each other, we’ve never had a moment quite like this, just the two of us, side by side in the quiet hours before dawn. Night has a way of softening mental defenses, creating space for words that might go unspoken in daylight. And so we talk. For two hours, we share pieces of our lives: how we first met in San Diego back in 2010, our hopes and fears, our dreams and disappointments. We speak of relationships, past and present, shifting patterns in our behavior, the chapters of life we've left behind, and those still ahead.

Time slips away unnoticed, each minute blending seamlessly into the next. Only when the first light creeps over the horizon do I realize it’s nearly time to wake my wife. We had both been so absorbed in the depth of our conversation that the prospect of the coming day, of the flight ahead, had drifted to the edges of our awareness. And just like that, the quiet magic of the night’s intimacy shuts down.

The new day has arrived, and with it, the anticipation of the night dissolves into the steady rhythm of morning tasks. Where the hours before dawn had felt timeless in apprehension that stretched to infinity, the reality now surrounds me with a different state of mind, brisk and present, focused on everything that has to be done.

I walk to the bedroom, feeling the shift from reflection to action. My wife is already awake, stretching in preparation for the day. She quickly gets up when I tell her the time, moving with efficiency to ensure we leave nothing behind.

In the hallway, I hear my daughter’s alarm go off, breaking the morning silence with its beeping. She emerges from her room, eyes heavy with sleep, brushing away the remnants of the night. She gives me a sleepy hug, pressing her head into my shoulder as if grounding herself in the day and, perhaps, in the moment, knowing that today we’d be saying goodbye.

There is a quiet understanding among us all, a shared acceptance of the day's practical tasks needed before parting. The night had been filled with sleeplessness, reflections, and connections, but the morning brought the need for simple activities: bags to carry, schedules to meet, a car to load, a tank to fill, and a quick drive to Dallas airport. It feels as if those early hours of anticipation have been folded neatly away, perhaps until the next trip, or perhaps dissolved, never to return.