On Sunday morning I sat in the hard wooden church pew of my childhood holding my godson, steeped in incense and nostalgia, a home like I’ve never before known. “I don’t know when I’ll be back next,” I told Callyn and her face fell. “I would’ve brought a gift if I’d known,” she said but the real gift is that she has borne witness to the last 13 years of my life.

And even when I’m no longer there please think of me staring out the window in that treehouse bedroom, or wandering the cracked pavement of those old familiar streets. Maybe it’s futile to mourn the loss of a home you haven’t lived in five years. But how do I explain that even the mountains are nothing compared to the evening sunlight filtering through those sycamore trees where I fell in love over and over again? It was cold and gray when I drove away.

In my new apartment the only table is a high-top, with wobbly backless barstools that discourage slouching of any sort. Maybe I’ll have perfect posture by the time I move out. During the day I bump around the place, continuously getting lost even though it is small, nothing yet familiar enough for muscle memory. The bathroom and kitchen are newly renovated but in a slap-dash way that looks better in pictures than in real life. I cling to my old routines but still it’s hard for me to think clearly. Outside it’s snowing again, big fat flakes that clump messily on the new grass, never mind that it’s late April. I’ve learned how to adapt to the cold here but it’s heat that I crave. Imagine living in a place where Spanish moss clings year-round, where the air is so thick with cicadas and humidity you could press it between your palms. It’s hard to imagine things will ever be the same again. I hope I’m wrong.