June 11, 2025
It’s T-minus five days until I leave Arizona, my home for the past 18 years. Like New York City before, I never intended to stay here. I came for what I thought was a short stint as a visiting faculty fellow at ASU, and to finish an LLM (still one paper short of that final degree). When my position at ASU ended in 2010, I expected the universe to give me a sign, a next step, a clear direction. None came. So I stayed. (Maybe that was the sign?)
I have never loved it here. It has had its moments – miles logged with my running group, silent discos, attempts to cross the Grand Canyon, the first house to truly feel like a home, more triathlons than I can count. But between the summer inferno, the disdain for education and the dominant conservative mindset, I never truly felt at home. Despite that, I moved my elderly parents here in 2012, really only expecting them to be around a few years and thereafter to be released. Instead, they continued on for a decade.
So I stayed too. Stuck, perhaps. Or maybe just tethered by some amount of love, obligation, responsibility and the inertia of caregiving.
Now, the days are waning and I’m feeling… what, exactly? Not sadness exactly. Maybe melancholy. A strange nostalgia for a place I haven’t even left yet.
The mornings are occasionally still cool here in early June. I drink my coffee outside in a lush backyard that overlooks a small, man-made lake. Hummingbirds zip and dive through the orange trees, chasing one another. The grackles chatter annoyingly, and I tend to my garden—trimming plants, picking strawberries, fixing drip lines, cutting back basil blossoms. It feels grounding, almost meditative, even though my mind is already half gone.
And then there’s the cat. Monkey. Technically my mother’s cat – her first. A terrible name, I know. I don’t know what I was thinking letting her get a cat in her mid-80s, but she had never had a pet of her own, and by then, her lifelong allergies had mostly faded.
She adored that cat.
I did not.
Monkey was skittish, aloof, and constantly spooked. When I took him into my house he disappeared for the first three months, never to be seen. But he has blossomed here. He ventures outside now. He cuddles. He curls up against my belly to sleep at night. He follows me as I move throughout the house during the day, moving as I move – with about a 10 minute time lag. He’s learned how to live, and made me love him, just as I’m preparing to go.
Since announcing my departure, people have started coming out of the woodwork, folks I haven’t seen or spoken to in years sometimes. People I used to see weekly, even almost daily, now suddenly reaching out for a goodbye coffee, a farewell brunch, one last cocktail. I joked to my old running crew that we should all pretend we’re leaving permanently every now and then, it seems to be the only thing that cuts through the daily grind and reminds people that life is short, and that it matters to reach out. To say hi. To hug tight. To say “love you, bye” just in case it *is* the last time.
My closest friends, the literal handful who know and love me best, have reacted in ways that have surprised me. One of them admitting to a surprising level of sadness at my departure, and a feeling of selfishness on her part that I was going. Another hurling the phrase “you’ll be back” at me over and over, striking me as a comment that I would “fail” at something I was not trying to win. Until I realized she was trying to say she would miss me.
That’s all lovely and gives me all the feels but . . . Not one of them live in Arizona.
We’re scattered across the country but stay close through texts, calls, and the most sacred exchange of modern affection: shared memes and Instagram reels. We’ve traveled together, meet up regularly, rarely letting more than four, maybe six months go by without seeing each other.
But now? Now they act like this move is the end of something. Like they won’t see me again. Like this is a goodbye instead of a beginning.
I remind them: I’m not beholden or chained to the South Pacific. Think of me as a moving target for them to shoot for overseas. I’m just starting there. I’ll go where the wind (or a cheap flight) takes me. If they tell me where they’re headed, I’ll pop over, share a hotel, meet for a hike, or share a bottle of wine on some unexpected terrace. Then I’ll pick up and continue on.
I’m not disappearing. I’m just moving.
And maybe, finally, becoming untethered.