We awoke before dawn after a sleepless Christmas night. We dressed and gathered the last of our belongings in post holiday haze, preparing ourselves for the early flight back to Oakland. Home. Or that is what we are calling it.
It was too early for much emotion as I hugged my sister goodbye, my nephews still snug in their beds, asleep. We drank coffee and tried to force some sort of nourishment into two crabby children before bracing the chaos of Denver International Airport on December 26th.
As we drove East the sun started to rise painting the morning sky pink and red above the snow capped peaks. My muscles tensed as I thought of the long lines and our sleep deprived children, and as we drew closer to our destination my eyes began to sting as I finally blinked back tears.
Christmas was over, our trip to Denver complete. The "vacation" had not been ideal, I was sick for the entire visit, I only saw a fraction of the people I had hoped to, my boys had not displayed much grace upon receiving generous, well thought out gifts, and nobody slept much. Yet, I felt bitterly sorry that we were leaving. Too soon, for too long.
Each time I return to Colorado I am struck by an uncomfortable feeling. Remorse. Pure remorse, and it seems to grow more intense with each visit. I am sorry that I ever agreed to leave my home. People whom I love. Friends. Family. A city I adore, one that is comfortable, beautiful and so very livable. My husband would disagree. He would point out all of the phenomenal things about living in the bay area. He would gush about the amazing experiences we have had since arriving in Berkeley. And he would be right, however as pretty as Golden Gate Park is and however bountiful the fresh produce, it isn't mine.
And now I feel trapped. David likes his job....a lot. It's a good job, one that would not easily be replaced, particularly in Denver.
So Denver becomes only a brief holiday visit, with an early morning return flight home.
And I feel so very sorry about that.