The recent threat of an airline strike left 150,000 people stranded after flights were cancelled – including my mother.
Her visit was extended, giving the children a bit more time to enjoy her presence. She also graciously allowed me to run away to London for a party I would have missed otherwise.
Today is her last day, and we walked over to the Polar Research Institute to look at Scott’s last letters home.
Growing up I never imagined I would leave my hometown. When I moved sixty miles away for college I was piteously homesick for the mountains and water, even though I was still on the Puget Sound. After grad school the six years in Portland represented a state of exile, no matter how much I loved my friends and house. When I moved to Seattle I felt like everything was finally sorted, that I had gone back to my true home.
I did not want to move away from the Northwest, or live anywhere more than ten miles from the place I was born. Then one afternoon I decided to leave forever – on a whim.
Every action has a consequence. Living here is fundamentally the best plan right now. But the choice means that I am separated from beloved family and friends, that my mother can only see her grandchildren for a few short visits once or twice a year.
This is excessively sad.