I didn’t want to leave California. I dreaded my Thursday night flight. I sulked. I may have cried.
My parents’ house in California has air conditioning, endless wine, an outdoor patio, multiple rooms to lounge in, a dining room table that serves as a fabulously large desk, a well-stocked kitchen, family, my puppy. Few responsibilities.
My apartment in Colorado is in a house built in the early twentieth century. It does not have air conditioning. I’m on the top floor. June was hot and smokey from Colorado’s multiple devastating fires. Last night my room read as 88 degrees at 11 pm. Groceries are limited to bulk oatmeal, eggs, and greens. Wine is a rare treat. I have no family here. No puppies. Few friends I rarely see because of work and school.
Since I was fourteen I’ve always wanted to leave California for Colorado. On Thursday I wanted to stay.
But then I got back here, back to my wisteria terraced old old home. I unpacked. I cleaned. It poured twice in the last twenty-four hours, and with the rain the temperature dropped ten degrees (and should drop more next week). The local fire is contained and the state wide ones aren’t blowing smoke this way. And I like my work. I adore my school. I like doing what I do, even if I sometimes hate it too.
I didn’t want to leave California, but now that I’m back in Colorado there’s no where else I’d rather be. For now, at least.