In fall of 1994, weeks after moving cross country to realize my dreams, I unpacked my belongings in my depressing, freeway adjacent Upland California apartment. Weeks earlier I’d said good-bye to my friends and my family with excitement for the glamorous new life I’d always thought I’d wanted. Upland, in the heart of the Inland Empire was far from my intended landing point of Hollywood, however it was away from sleepy Manchester New Hampshire and the upcoming winter. Why Upland? Well, that had been my employer’s choice. If I wanted to move all my possessions to Southern California and have a job waiting for me, I had to take what they were offering.

The excitement of the move had dulled as my heart started aching for the friends and family I’d left behind and then the trailer arrived carrying all my worldly possessions. While I spend the afternoon a block away selling pants to fat men, the driver and his assistant unloaded the boxes and stacked them in my living room. When I got home from work I was confronted with the grueling task of finding a place for all my things. I was amazed that I could have amassed so much stuff in my childhood bedroom but I had.

The first thing I set up was my CD player. From my large CD collection, I picked out Tori Amos, Little Earthquakes to listen to as I inspected my prized possessions. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over me as I pondered what I’d just done. This was not my first time away from home. The winter before I’d spent December through March in South Burlington Vermont opening a store for the company that had moved me here. In Vermont I’d been three and a half hours away from my family and close enough to still drive home for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Here in this place, only miles away from where I’d intended to live, I had an overwhelming sense that I’d made a grave mistake in moving here.

As I listened to Tori’s beautiful voice sing Silent All These Years, I thought about the morning I left my childhood home and how my mother hugged me so tight. A hug from my mother could make all my worst nightmares seen not too bad. Never again would she be at arm’s reach to comfort me like that. I was totally isolated and helpless in this place. Even when I would be fortunate enough to visit home, I would be a visitor there. A guest. Living so far away I’d be robbing my wonderful mother of the chance to watch me grow deeper into manhood. I knew that in moving so far away I’d broken her heart and it made me want to cry. And my brother. We were finally at a place in our relationship where he’d stopped being my bratty little brother and had become a friend I chose to talk with and share interests with. No matter how strong the intent, keeping up a relationship over the phone is difficult and soon becomes more of catching up when the opportunity presents itself. My father had always been a man of few words. As children we had very little time to spend with him since he had to work sunrise to sunset, six days a week to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. Although he never articulated it in words to me, I knew that my father only wanted the best for me. He cared for me and loved me but just had a hard time putting it into words. Perhaps it was that inability of his that had given me the ability to put thoughts into words so well.