Longing

I hate where I live. No. I loathe where I live.

Aside from the fact that I am a fish out of water in every sense of the word, and that I simply cannot abide the interminable summers where heat and humidity and bugs make us captive inside our homes for 6 months out of the year, I hate how we live.

We live on the outskirts of Atlanta in a modest suburban enclave. Our home is a nondescript crackerbox that lacks grace and character. There are no sidewalks in my neighborhood. No. Sidewalks. Who ever heard of a neighborhood with no sidewalks?

The subdivision is bordered on three sides by very busy roads; roads that seperate the residential from the commercial. My children cannot walk or bike anywhere, nor can I. We are completely dependant upon our car for even the smallest errand.

There is no life in this neighborhood. I can go days without seeing actual people, though of course they are here.

I am isolated and alone during the day. If I want to encounter living breathing human beings, I have to avail myself of contrived and superficial social gatherings...the very kind of thing that I avoid at all costs.

Husband's commute takes an hour on good days, through snarling traffic and surly drivers and belching exhaust. Last night, he made the fatal mistake of leaving at 4:00 instead of his usual time, 3:30, and it took him a full 90 minutes from door to door. He works only 30 miles from our home.

I am unhappy. Terribly, profoundly, inextricably, unhappy.

I long for the simplicity of the small-ish town where I grew up. We walked to school and when we were old enough, we biked. We walked to the park, the library, the corner candy store that is still there and where my sister still walks with her children for a special treat.

The summers are brief but glorious, the fall crisp and satisfying, the winters, yes, long, but not nearly as long as the scorching southern summers. And spring there...it's like rebirth when the winter looses its icy grip.

There are no venomous reptiles, or alligators or scorpions or cockroaches the size of small rodents.

My children are growing up in this vast metropolitan cesspool and I hate it. They are growing up in a land of intolerance and bigotry and I hate it. They are growing up to value things and judge people by the face they show to the world and I hate it.

I hate that they see my parents once a year, twice if they're lucky. I am profoundly resentful that the grandparents who can see them whenever they please, rarely do.

I hate that since they were born, I have been on my own.

I hate that they don't know their cousins. I hate the they don't know what a wonderful person my Auntie Carol is, or get the benefit of her particular brand of grandmotherly attention.

I hate that they don't know anything about how or where I grew up and probably never will. All they will ever know is this.

I talk to husband about it of course. And he agrees it would be a better way of life, but it is token agreement at best for he doesn't really want to leave. And always there is some obstacle or impediment. The job market, the housing crisis, the taxes! For him it's a practical matter. It's not the right time. It never will be.

I don't know how to make him understand that every day that we remain here, my spirit dies a little bit more. It dies of loneliness and boredom and homesickness. It dies of not belonging. It dies with the knowledge that I will one day have to say my good-byes to a dead body. It dies with the regret of having left behind the privilege of being with them while they are alive.

Sometimes, when I can't keep the homesickness at bay, I go online and look at realestate in that town. I always find the perfect thing of course. It's torture and I should know better. Most of the time I recognize that, but sometimes the need to look is just too much.

Today was one of those days. And of course, I found the perfect thing. I am angry that it cannot be mine. That it will probably never be mine.

I can usually push the anger and resentment away. I am lucky in so many respects. I have a wonderful husband and our marriage is strong. But I wonder what happens when I get that call, and it's too late. I wonder if the resentment will be so easily quelled in the throes of grief. I worry that it will tear us apart.

Jesus. Living between worlds is such a mess. I don't recommend it at all.