Missing

This time, it was harder to leave Trevor.

(And the rest of my loved ones, including those pictured at left.)

I've been away from home for months before and find that it gets harder, not easier, to leave. Three months is not such a long time, but I worry about my parents, who are spry as heck but not getting any younger. I hate that every time I come back, my niece and nephew seem a foot taller and 10 years older (though I will admit that I am ok with just hearing about the band concerts). I hate missing out on fall, sitting on the deck and watching the leaves turn.

In a way, though, I appreciate how painful it is to leave. Otherwise maybe I would become numb to how awesome my ordinary life is, how excellent my hometown is, how rich I am in friends and family and four-legged creatures who snore, shed and drool. Maybe the wakeup call has to be painful to really shake me up.