The gift of time, a time of gifts.(South Florida Sun-Sentinel)

Byline: Thomas Swick

I recently had to postpone a trip because of an eye problem, and while I occasionally wonder about missed exotica (meeting princes? eating locusts?), I'm rather enjoying the borrowed time here with the known.

I've been given three weeks of life at home. All the things I was prepared to miss _ my wife, my bed, my ability to communicate _ have risen in loveliness. Because I am not supposed to be here, here is unpreparedly sweet.

When every day is a day you weren't expecting, even going to the office becomes a joy (especially when you've done all your work for the next three issues). You wave to neighbors and idle for pedestrians. You sing Gershwin at raised bridges and quote Whitman to everlasting trains. This is your life (unlike travel) and you are here for it.

If only all our weeks could have this richness! If only we didn't have to cancel trips to see it!

At your desk you're in command, making spam disappear with an authority that never seems to work on touts. At noon, you head out to your favorite restaurant, where no one on the staff speaks English as a native language but everybody addresses you by name. The foreign and the familiar perfectly fused in a single lunch hour.

In the afternoon, a freelancer calls and diffidently asks if he's caught you at a bad time. "I can't," you tell him, "imagine a better one." Half an hour later, a PR person chirps and you sternly announce that you're on deadline.