It's not Sam's fault that we're staying in California, it's mine. It isn't about him not wanting to look for a different job, or him feeling safe staying in one place. It isn't about where he wants to get his masters degree. He's flexible. He wouldn't mind the East Coast too much, it's closer to his parents and he would get to have snow, lightning storms, and fireflies. No, it's me, me... me... me... I SAY I'm ready to leave, I even get excited about it. I make plans and mentally pack my bags. But then I start to fall apart, little by little, piece by piece. And there's Sam watching it happen, every time. I'm already off kilter enough, but throw in the thought of saying goodbye to the otters at the aquarium and I'm a complete disaster. I insist that I can handle it, I say that there's a difference between being willing and being ready. Sam knows me better than that, better than I sometimes know myself. I would do anything for my family, give up everything. I guess Sam is too. So, he signed up to go to school here, then he worked towards a higher position at work, making it seem as though we couldn't possibly leave just yet. My heart sinks for a moment because it is my sister that is on the other side of the country, the [other] person that I should be having my morning coffee with. The person I vowed [as a child] to always be close to. At the same moment, though, the hysteria lifts and I feel I can breath [the air blowing in from the Pacific] again. I'm sorry that I made promises, and I'm sorry that I really thought I could actually do it (because I really did, really, really). I guess that when home becomes HOME then leaving becomes [nearly] impossible.
