The Heart Don't Forget

I was walking back to my temporary address in the middle of the day, texting my dad as parents and children came and went from school. The sunshine was just right, and the laughter among the families made me grin. Someone had watered their plants, and the smell of wet earth rose into the breeze.

That scent made me stop for a moment.

I kept walking, but in my head, I was back in Virginia, standing in humid summer shade, breathing in the smell of moisture and tomato plants, feeling dry grass crush beneath my feet at the peak of a summer day.

And for the first time since coming to California, I felt homesick.

The timing was almost funny. Just the day before, I'd decided to stay in California a little longer, which apparently was when my heart chose to get sentimental about tomato plants and humidity. Go figure.

But until that moment, California had felt like possibility. I still believed a new life could begin with a different zip code, better weather, and a willingness to try. There was freedom in not knowing exactly what I was doing. There was also a fair amount of pretending that not knowing was part of "the plan."

I liked the version of myself who had come here. She was curious. Optimistic. Slightly underprepared. She could walk through a sunny afternoon and believe the whole world was opening in front of her.

Still, deciding to stay longer made everything feel more serious. A season away was one thing. Anything more seemed like a decision people might expect me to defend.

I'd been wrestling with staying for several reasons, but mostly because I was afraid of getting it wrong. I was afraid I'd remain in California and later realize I'd been foolish and naïve. I was, and still am, afraid of doing all of this so far away from my family. Beneath both fears was another one I didn't like admitting: that choosing a life for myself might be selfish. Gasp.

Being away meant I wasn't immediately available. I couldn't stop by, show up, help out, or be folded into the ordinary rhythm of life built around a permanent address. In my family, love has always been expressed through proximity. Somewhere along the way, I'd turned that into a self-imposed requirement to remain within reach at all times. Yet, looking back, it's been a convenient way to justify some decisions I've made. (Which, that alone is its own essay...)

That afternoon, my dad was off work and getting ready to go to an event with my brothers. He works shifts at a paper plant, so having time to message with him consistently felt like a small gift. I could picture the three of them together, talking, laughing, and probably giving one another shit in the particular way men in a family sometimes do, mainly to avoid saying they're happy to be together.

I've always been close to my dad. Certain songs make me think of him, especially Tim McGraw's "Something Like That." It carries the same easy confidence my dad has always had. I can still picture him singing along to the radio in his signature pickup, exaggerating the lyrics and bouncing around in the driver's seat to make me laugh as we rode somewhere together.

So it's strange how an ordinary summer day can become a permanent memory before you even realize it matters. That song holds the humor, sweetness, and nostalgia that arrives wearing a grin instead of asking permission to make you cry.

That was the feeling I wanted to hold on to.

I didn't want missing my family to become evidence that I'd made the wrong choice. I wanted it to mean I'd come from somewhere worth missing.

Maybe loving them didn't require me to be constantly available. Maybe distance didn't make me less loyal, less useful, or less connected. Maybe I could build a life in California and still honor the family that shaped me.

Like I said, I kept walking and kept thinking about what's "right" for me.

The school traffic moved around me. The breeze lifted. The watered soil still smelled like the place I've come from.

But for a few seconds, I'd been back there with my toes in the dirt, rooted in place. Then California came into focus again, bright and open in front of me, asking me to trust the choice I'd made.