This is not where I’m supposed to be

I should be in Northern France, in Stella, at David’s moms house. I had train tickets. I have all sorts of tickets and plans coming up. Israel, Amsterdam, my friend coming in September, mysteriously elusive kitchen cupboards to sign for and install, dates to go home for Thanksgiving. All sorts of plans, all sorts of things I was supposed to do. I have the documentation to prove it. Lots of bits and pieces of paper explaining the next few months of my life.

Why am I back in California?

Two years is tough to swallow. Two years is not enough time. And when two years shrinks to months to weeks, well how do you swallow that? I can’t live in Paris, I can’t live in California. I can’t live anywhere in the world if my mom isn’t here with me.

I powered through the 24 hours I had to pack. I can do that. I’ve packed a million times. Plus when you go home, you don’t really need to bring anything. I focused on charging stuff and collecting wires and iPods and passports and american dollars. Logistics to and from the airports. I held it together and didn’t read anymore emails until I got into my sisters car in San Francisco.

And now my jet lag buffer is fading and reality is knocking at my door. I don’t know how long I’ll stay. I’m starting to think, hope, it may be for a while. But the child in me is hoping that I can go home, use some of those tickets, go back to my even keeled life and return in November. And my mom will come bursting out of the door and bear hug me for minutes on the front porch, and then bustle around in the kitchen bombarding me with drinks and food and candy.

But reality pounds and bangs until I pay attention, and tells me, I’m going to be here longer than I thought. And come November, everything will be different.

We’ve already gone through losing our dad suddenly. (Oh yes, now it’s we, not me. Now my sisters and I can get along. Now we can love each other. Now we can put aside our differences). I always thought if I had a chance to say good bye, one last hug, it would have been easier. Now that I’m an adult, I understand that it’s not easier, it’s just different.  I have the opportunity to say…. say what? The last hug will still be the last hug, even if I know it’s the last.

I’m so pissed and angry and I don’t understand. I just don’t understand how it could get this bad so fast. I don’t understand how someone so important, so kind, so generous could exist one day but not the next. But I do understand, I’ve been here before, I know just what’s ahead of me.


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