On not missing home

A colleague of mine moved to LA from the south last year and is having a hard time adjusting. “I miss the seasons,” she says, very obviously expecting me to chime in with how I love(d) Kansas in November, which I did but basically my position is they would have to extradite me before I set foot in that place again.

I love LA. I love that everyone here is from somewhere else and most of them are passing through. I love the blue sky and the sunshine and the aqua swimming pool I sit beside every day to write.

I love the sound of the traffic on Venice Boulevard and the tipsy laughter of the girls on the sidewalk outside my window late at night.

I love the dust that blows in my windows and the lotion I have to rub on my parched skin every morning. I love the way people smile at you when you smile at them and I love the dreams my neighbors have. I hope every one of them comes true.

I love the jaunty delivery people who salute me as they whoosh in and out of the apartment complex and while sometimes I regret I didn’t do this thirty years ago when I first planned it, I love that I finally understood that it’s never too late to do that thing you always wanted to do.

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