She’s whispering hurried goodbyes in between barely containable sobs. A fresh stream of tears moistens my own cheek as she embraces me with the tender physical emotion only a mother can produce. All day we tried not to think of this teary departure. Gripping my shoulders and with a downright soul shaking desperation in her eyes, she asks me to look after her son. I am in full throttle brave face mode. I will absolutely look after Logan. There is nothing to worry about. We’ll be home before you know it.
Then the taxi pulls away from the curb, their waving hands and sad smiles disappear around the corner. Total devastation. Instantly I am a pile of tears and half sentences of sorrow. This is the terrible hangover caused by a two week love drunk binger.
The dull ache of anguish begins in the chest and moves rapidly throughout the body weakening the limbs and forming tangled knots in the stomach. We stumble around our lonely hotel room like zombies, not sure where we take it from here. There’s little to say, only silently shared moments of understanding and outrageously long hugs. We lack any appetite but end up gorging on comfort food and Coronas at the nearby California Burrito Company.
After twelve months on the road we find we miss indescribable things. Vague ideas like the ability to communicate fluently or unspoken societal norms. On the contrary, the missed connectivity among close friends and family is palpable. When we’re fortunate enough to have them close we bask in their love and conversation.
The days after their departure we’re like junkies looking for a quick hit. Out of sorts and experiencing flashbacks at inopportune moments.
But in this nomadic chapter of our lives the only answer is cold turkey. Our consistent remedy for the blues is striking south and hitting the open road… After an hour of smuggled sunflower seeds, windows down, and Willy Nelson’s On the Road Again all the way up, we are ready to relish these last few months of mobile living.