My roots are planted deep in Jersey soil. They were fed by the lights from the New York City skyline and the waves crashing off of the Jersey Shore.
They grew strong with stories told by a dad who always knew to do voices for every storybook character, and afternoons of baking with a mom who used the time as impromptu sex ed (Cut the scones in half. Hey Rena, do you know what a woody is?).
These roots wrapped around not one, but two family matriarchs, and withstood even as both left the mortal plane.
My roots carry echoes of summers spent in a grandmother’s swimming pool and winters full of snowmen (and sometimes snowdogs). They know laughter, tears, loss, and luck. They’ve seen their parent trees as human and flawed, and still are filled with love for them, and they stretch, achingly sometimes, to maintain that connection between where they are and where they are going.
These roots have grown, twisted, and turned as time has gone by. They’ve stretched up to Boston and Cambridge, circling there for four long years before beginning a long journey, inching their way to San Francisco. Wood splinters, it wears. Fires can destroy them and water can wear them away, but still my roots held strong as they grew. They were a steady path to follow back, a safety harness when my wings took me too far too fast.
My roots, everlasting and full of love, call me home for more changes, more twists and turns, as my life continues to unfold. It’s time to follow them back to the beginning; to recharge and remember the little girl who loved to play in the woods behind her yard and who would talk to Peter Pan. It’s time to go home.
I will see San Francisco in two weeks. It’s time for a recharge.