I don’t know, man. I get all stream of consciousness when I ride the bus. I was staring out the window, thinking about boring stuff such as the resumes I’ve sent to California, the woman I spoke to about a cat-friendly apartment in San Francisco, and the loans I’ve applied for which will be bending me over until I’m fifty. The city rolled by me until the intersection of Chicago and Milwaukee Avenues, and BAM! The Chicago skyscape smacked me in the face, all spread out and resplendent as the Emerald City.

For reasons unknown, the image of a cheesy map of the United States popped into my head, and it occurred to me that after I move, I will be really, really, really far from Massachusetts, where I was born. Next I knew, I was crying.

(And, oh, shit! Here I go again. I am losing my mind. Hey, I’ve noticed that when you’re obviously upset, and people ask you if you’re all right, they don’t really know how to respond when you answer, “Yeay, I’m fine. I’m just crying.”)

I try to maintain an anti-hypothetical perspective. That is, I dwell on the “what if” as little as possible. But I soon found myself in a quagmire, once it hit me how far I’m going to be from my family.

What if something happens to them? What if I’m too poor or just too far away to get home when I need to? What if someone gets sick? Oh, dammit, what if they don’t know how much I love them? How could I have let that happen?

Sometimes, I’m afraid my parents think I’ve made the decisions I have just so I can get as far away from them as possible. I’d hate for them to think that it was deliberate, but the fact is that I’ve sculpted my life in a way that has caused me to move further and further away from them. I know this isn’t terribly uncommon. But, I worry that my priorities are selfish and fucked up. I think it might have been cruel of me to drift so far from my anchor, knowing that the further I get, the harder it is for them to hold on. It would be even crueler, if my decisions have led them to believe that I want them to let go completely. I don’t want that at all.

I call my folks at least once a week, and talk to my sister about every other day. I’m not afraid of losing them just because we’ll be separated by an entire ocean of land. I mean, it's not like I get to see them more than a couple of times a year, now. They’re not mad at me for moving, either. They’re proud of me, and excited for me.

My mom’s almost as excited as I am, maybe because she has this idea that once I’ve earned my Master’s in something as non-fartsy as Clinical Psychology, I’ll suddenly morph into a stable career woman instead of a whimsical airhead.

Last weekend, she said to me, “Maybe you’ll meet someone nice when you’re at school.”

“Maybe, Mom. I’m sure there are a few straight boys in San Francisco.”

“At least a few. OH! Speaking of straight boys, guess who I ran into in the supermarket?”

And so on. Not too long ago, Mom wouldn’t have played along with that joke.

My sister’s busy planning her wedding, and even though discussing the type of cardstock she should use for her invitations makes my brain die a little, I get kind of teary when I hear about her preparations. Even though I’m bad at that stuff, I wish I was around to help.

My dad, even though he doesn’t say very much, makes it well known that he thinks I’m cool as hell, and he misses me like crazy. While weeping on the bus, it occurred to me that out of the handful of times I’ve seen my father cry, all but one of them have been because of me.

Examples:

1. I was seventeen, and had a lead role in a difficult play that required me to sing lots of sopranoey operatic stuff. My voice was blatantly not ready for such music, but I guess I did okay. After the show, I went out to the lobby to meet my parents. My mom gave me a bouquet of flowers. As Mom was congratulating me, my dad suddenly burst out of nowhere, grabbed me, hugged me, AND THEN HE CRIED into my neck for a couple of minutes before sprinting into the men’s room to try to compose himself.

2. The semester when I was studying in London, my parents came to visit me for my 21st birthday, after I had been in London for a couple of months. One night, I was leaving their hotel to go back to my dorm, and my dad insisted on accompanying me as far as the tube stop. On the way to the station, he said to me, “You’re different, Kell.” “No, I’m not.” “You are. You’re out here all on your own, and you seem different. You’re really grown up.” AND THEN, HE CRIED.

3. The night before I moved to Chicago, I was in my room, packing up the last of my belongings to lug out to the van. I was squatting on the floor, placing sundries in a trunk, and looked up to see my dad standing in my doorway like a specter. When he had caught my eye, he said, “I wish you weren’t going, Kell. I know you have to, but I wish you weren’t going.” AND THEN, HE CRIED.

4. These days, every time I bring up my impending move to California, he says, “Aw, hon. I wish you weren’t going to be so far away,” and he says it in such a way that I KNOW HE IS CRYING.

Goddamn. When I was seven, I used to sit on my dad’s lap and watch Roy Rogers movies on television. He’d smoke his pipe, and I’d try to disguise the fact that the smoke was making my eyes water, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Ours has always been an affectionate relationship of comfortable silences and awkward respect. We’re very much alike, my dad and I. I miss him. I miss my whole freaking family.

Somewhere between Roy Rogers and the Emerald City, I have become a horrible creature whose life decisions MAKE DADDY CRY.

I know there are worse things than having a dad who loves you so much that he cries when you can’t hang out. If I were writing fiction, this story would probably take a dramatically tragic turn towards the “Papa Don’t Preach." Luckily, my dad and I have a stable relationship, and I ain't no one's baby mama.

I know I’m lucky. I still feel bad.

I can’t concentrate on jack shit. I’m honestly really excited for the move, and I’m relieved to say that I’m getting a lot done. I know it’ll be fine.

But I’ve been crying so much over the past two days, you'd think something bad had happened. Every second feels like a tiny piece of a slow goodbye. It’s making me emotional and kind of bitchy, and it’s getting on my fucking nerves.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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