One of the saddest things about this time of year is that time and circumstances have moved on and my son Henry can no longer return to the place he remembers as “home.”
I have gone to great lengths to make Estrella Vista my home (and have largely succeeded), but Henry has been living in Florida as a steadfast nomad, and has not developed any permanent connections to any place he’s lived. He presently lives in a one-bedroom apartment with no furniture but a mattress, and is prepared to move at the drop of a hat, unencumbered by possessions.
If you think I live the life of an ascetic, believe me, it doesn’t hold a candle to the lifestyle of my son. Despite average wages, he has paid off his private-college student loans and has money in the bank. He has developed personal discipline to a degree that is beyond my ability, and I am proud of him for that. However, it is at times like today that he deals with the obverse side of the coin and is alone, separated from his roots, connected to me by only a telephone line.
I have tried repeatedly to get him to visit this place, but he always declines. He says that it is too far away, and that he can ill-afford the time away from work. But I suspect that he resists seeing the old familiar objects of his youth in a new setting that will confirm that the “home” of his memory is truly a thing of the past.
We spoke on the phone yesterday, and the best gift he could have given me was the statement that one of his goals for the coming year is that he is going to try to achieve a greater understanding of why I have relocated here.
Who knows? Maybe that will even include a visit.
81° and Clear