The interior of my mom’s silver Toyota RAV4 was packed to its metal seams with an explosion of family possessions. A lifetime’s collection of life-size Care Bears held the backseat captive while everything from pillows to plates occupied the remaining space. This car and its contents were the earliest of our things to be transported in a cross-country move from Livermore, Calif. to Wellesley, Mass. It was the first to take the plunge.
After cramming in what we could, my sister Jackie and I watched from the window as an enormous tow truck pulled our RAV4 onto a platform and chained it there, holding both vehicle and heirlooms securely inside. Within minutes, the truck was lumbering away, carrying with it a rainbow-colored array of compact cars and the memories of three turbulent driving tests I had taken with the Toyota.
As it made its way off into the sunset, Jackie and I sadly pondered this permanent departure from our fair weather home to the faraway climes of New England. Although we had moved several times before, our attachment to California was particularly strong, since it was where we really began to grow up.
I spent many of my formative years in Livermore, dealing with a “High School Musical” obsession, witnessing an iguana invade the local pool, and getting to know some of my best friends. Losing the warm temperatures of California was definitely threatening, but even more so was losing the connections I had built there.
When I first left for college, I bade farewell to the West Coast knowing I could always go back. Over J-Term, I left with a much more permanent sense of departure, but also a curiosity for what’s next. After all, I’m going from a place that’s hella awesome to one I hope will be just as wicked cool.
