Roots

When it comes to my parents, I always assumed that I would be the one to fly off someday, turning around to wave at them as they stood on our porch, rooted deeply to the home I grew up in. Instead, it is my roots that are becoming more firmly planted (I have now lived in the same apartment for two years, who knew), and it is my parents who are off on an international adventure that will keep them away for more than two Christmases. 

My relationship with each parent is unique. Moments with my dad, while quality, are marked largely by silence as we ride our bikes together, our cadence a constant hum in an otherwise quieter conversation of hearts. For him, he simply needs to know that his family is doing okay. With my mother, silences are rare, and our time is spent on the basement couch, me reverting to a childish position so she can tickle my back while we talk about things we don't often admit to others. Thinking of these memories, dependent so much on physical proximity, I can't help but wonder what truly makes a home, especially when your parents aren't in it anymore. And most importantly, how can I keep all this from changing when they are moving two oceans away?

The answer is, I can't. My other friendships undergo constant face lifts as people's situations change and their needs in the relationship do too. But while I never considered this would happen with my parents as they were meant to stay in the exact same place, to their credit, they are choosing not to. When many people around them are starting to cash in their chips (some alarmingly young), my parents are daring to take a risk with their future, which they still treat as long, exciting, and unknown.

Perhaps the best thing my parents could do for their family was not to stay behind so that our home never changed, but to leave so that we know that it is never too late to tug up on your roots a little to do something you truly believe in.