Last night home. I don’t want to go to bed. I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want tomorrow to arrive.
The house is eerie. I’ve never been here before without the kids. We have taken down the paintings, covered the holes on the wall, given away the plants. We are erasing our steps in the sand. Like we were never here. Like this time never existed. Nothing lives here anymore. Nothing but our ghosts sitting next to our suitcases. It’s quiet and dark, and somehow I no longer belong here… nor anywhere else.
When tonight ends, a certain world with certain possibilities ends. I rode home from dinner one last time. Rode my new bike, like a horse, through the trees and cobbled stone streets. I looked at the shops and the sculptures. Those things, right there in front of me, they are no longer mine. Those closed shops, for me, are closed forever.
I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but moving is a little bit like dying. A little part of you dies. Relationships end. Friendships and the stories to be told go unfinished. Some stories, they get cut off, mid sentence, as if it was some bad tumor. The body and soul become restless searching for that missing limb. Feeling it’s discomfort but unable to find it.
If I ever had to write a poem about my life it would talk about nostalgia and missed opportunities. Every move and every choice entails missed opportunities. An entire path you can imagine, envision, but never travel.
I know. I know. The new show is about to begin. I know we will be fine. I know there are adventures to be lived, new friends to make, new things to love. But I’m tired and I want to stop ridin’ the waves that come and go and leave nothing but foam in the sand.
Yet, I can’t conceive never moving again. I can’t conceive that my new home will be my last.
I got me a bad case of the nomad cowboys blues.