Scattered pieces

“Well, you want to move back to Maryland, right? Someday?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I really like it here, Jo.”

Matt and I were searching for his keys along Santa Monica’s inky night sidewalks, with little but the pale moonlight and the occasional headlights to guide us. We walked side by side, he tall and lumbering, sweaty from a run (But I applied extra deodorant for you, Jo, and I even was kind enough to squirt on some cologne before you came to pick me up). My unwashed hair was up on my head in pins and I sported sweat pants and an old t-shirt with paint splotches on it from four years ago when my parents and I painted my old room a pale yellow. He had made the mistake of asking me what’s new, and I told him I’m applying to jobs in Chicago (God, I love Chicago!), Los Angeles (the market here is just fantastic, a lot of opportunity), San Diego (I want to be close to my brother) and Phoenix (I want to buy a house; I want to be near my family).

I like it here, too. It’s just…I can’t be here forever. I dunno…the traffic. The housing prices. The…

Words failed me. I tried again:

But don’t get me wrong. I really like it here. But it’s just not my long term plan. Ya know?

Matt went on to explain his side of things. Here in Los Angeles, he doesn’t have allergies. He doesn’t care about buying a home right now. He likes the weather.

We strolled along, kicking leaves, dragging our feet in the dirt near thick tree roots in hopes of stumbling over his keys by blind feel. The night air was cool against our skin. Three miles away, on the deserted night beaches of Santa Monica the ocean roared on, an unchanging, reliable, enduring roar.

“My family’s not here,” I said. “And I’m sick of dating these industry…entertainment…FREAKS!” Matt smiled at this reference. “And…well, I guess the only big thing holding me here is friends. I’ve got a lot of really close friends here.”

And I thought about my friends. I thought about my first Roomie, how she and her boyfriend nearly adopted me and pride themselves on turning me into a funny pseudo Jew. I thought about the obvious friends that came out of this: the Maryland Four, friends who I once rode the bus with in elementary school. How is it that they came to find me all the way out here on the West coast? I thought about the surprises: that one of my ex’s past girlfriends is now one of my closest girlfriends here. And the even greater surprises: past friends from high school whom I once thought were lost but when I tell them I need them, they are there for me in such sudden bursts of compassion and true friendship.

If home is where the heart is, my heart is scattered into a hundred shiny pieces over the U.S. and across the Atlantic. Like tiny grains of silvery sand or brilliant broken stained glass bits. Scattered and shared and light and free.

“A lot of good friends,” I repeated.

“Yeah, and good friends. They aren’t a dime a dozen in Los Angeles, you know,” Matt said. “Well, they aren’t a dime a dozen anywhere.”

We were back at my car. I pushed the unlock button on my key chain, glanced up at the star-graced sky.

“That’s true.”