I am running away.
Back to the snow.
I’m sure that if I thought about it more clearly, I might be able to discern what exactly I’m running from.
I spend hours and hours on real estate websites. Hours and hours making calendars and spreadsheets and budgets.
Wasn’t it always going to come to this? Wasn’t I always going to return to this chosen city of safety, or at least try to?
I think I might lose my best friend over it. I’m wondering how I can force that not to happen.
Maybe I’ll need to put my visits with her into one of my budgets.
Brian and I are in a place in our lives where a change needs to be made. I’m sick of sitting here on this growing ass and letting life pass me by.
These years of virus and cancer have worn us down, all raw and painfully slick.
Still, staying doesn’t sound so bad.
But leaving sounds pretty good.
I run back in my head all of the cities we’ve lived in. They were places we’d chosen, places where we thought we could start fresh, maybe move on from something hard. But, as most young folks do, we didn’t think most of it through. The good places we found were always by accident.
I’m not bored. That’s not it. This town has cradled me through the darkest times of my life.
But it’s kind of like how I don’t really like wearing the pajama bottoms I wore in the hospital. Those are memories that perhaps I should hold onto, but not something I need to be reminded of every time I open my drawer.
I imagine we should arrive sometime right near Christmas. Even if there’s no snow yet, the slap of cold on our cheeks will let us know we are somewhere else.
May I come along?
Beautiful writing