Perhaps it’s in my blood, afterall, my family tree reveals very long branches as generations moved from Germany, France, Ireland, Scotland, England, Australia. By the time I was in my mid-teens I had begun feeling that wanderlust that lures birds from the nest to take flight into the great unknown and beyond.
And since I have grown without every knowing what it was like to have grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins nearby, it seemed perfectly natural that I would want to make a leap to find my own place. So it was that, mid-senior year, I began packing for my collegiate adventures in Texas–about 850 miles from home.
Much to my mother’s dismay, I didn’t look back very often and cried hardest when I had to be separated from my friends to return home. I continued to tear at her heart by staying in Texas nearly 12 years before getting married and moving to the Midwest.
Only after my children were born did I begin to wish I lived closer so that my children would have the connections I lacked. Illness made it even more difficult to keep apart. So we look at the calendar and try to travel– them to me and me to them. The rope becomes more like a rubber band, we stretch apart and then snap back together when the time and distance become too great to bear.
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