Suddenly the urge to run home is too sharp to ignore. No matter how warmly the California sun sparkles or how deep the well of luck flows, there are moments when all that I want is to return. Each year for the last nine, I’ve kept track of how many weeks would pass before I’d be in the skies again headed East. As of March 2020, I’ve lost all grasp of when I’ll next see snow piling up on our rooftop. Precious unreclaimable hours with family and friends are washing away. Home appears an alternate universe, a fantasy — nightmares flood in of missed flights. Visions of visits so sort, I spin around on the tarmac and return before seeing a soul. Will this finally dull after a decade? Or, will the new world make it possible to work remotely forever? Maybe it is time to go home.
