Letter No. 18

Somewhere near B Street.

I'm looking for home in the trees of another town. I'm looking at the sky above and through the leaves and wondering if it's as blue, or if, like the trees, it's just a shade of what I've just left behind for the hundredth time.

It's supposed to have gotten easier. But there are always corners of home I didn't spend enough time in, people I didn't spend enough time with, and things I didn't get to do, or do enough.

You'd think it would be easier to have your loved ones in one place, but over four short days, I've realized that it can just make your choices clearer and thus more difficult. You want to keep your boyfriend company on the bank rocks, but that means not playing with your younger cousins down-river. You want to hang out with your brothers in the living room, but that means not chatting to your lola as she putters around in her bedroom. You want to check in on your childhood haunts and remind yourself that the past really happened, but that means not being present with everyone else who stayed indoors.

Meanwhile, the future and the city are just three days, two days, one day, and then one plane ride nap away. And if you take even just one moment to stop and change your mind about one of your choices, or even if you don't, you will always wonder if you're making the good ones.

In the city, I look for home in shorter, thinner trees. I tell myself that good or bad, the choices were made, and mine. Cris says, "Hey," kisses my hand, makes me laugh, and brings me into the present. The sun is shining. Traffic is light. The sky, despite everything else, is blue.

Cris squeezes my hand, and I know that at least one of my choices has been a good one.