It’s 4:30a.m. Early, but I can’t sleep. Nostalgia washes over me in waves. It ebbs and flows, where sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in it, and sometimes its distant and remote so I can face it with scorn.

A year ago, E had just graduated. He was packing to leave for Oregon for the summer.

Now, he’s an ocean and a continent away, living on his own in Prague. So much has happened in such a short time. But that will be the way for the rest of our lives, I think.

I’m so very proud of what he’s been able to do; how well he’s handled himself and with such maturity and aplomb. He’ll do well with the challenges ahead of him.

It’s so quiet now. No Olivia the dog in the morning, no snoring away or the little yelps as she dreams of runs through the campo. Not even the crow of a distant rooster, no brakes of the semi trucks coming down the highway in the distance, or the lowing of the train. (I haven’t even noticed the train since we’ve been back…I wonder where it went?) Now, just the hum of the refrigerator, the random creak and pop as the house settles and adjusts.

It’s been very wet this June. And gray and cool. We don’t even have the windows open and i wear sweat pants and a fleece.

I’ve really become aware of the affect of the cool, gray weather on my mood and my waning desire to write. My most creative and abundant journals, I think, are from when it is very warm, and I have to get up early in the morning to escape the midday heat. I guess it just takes the groggy morning stillness.

Today is Wednesday and in one week, we will be on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean en route to Prague.

(this laptop keyboard is so loud! too loud! I don’t want to wake Pati!)

Now as we get closer to visiting, most of what I look forward to is just being back together with our son. Reconnecting with him. Building new memories. Hearing first-hand what he’s been doing and seeing. Maybe having him show us around his new home. Getting to cook our favorite meals together (a recent favorite, vegan lentil bolognese). Getting to laugh and be silly and hug and be silly and laugh while we cook together. And go out to dinner and feed our young starving college student (maybe this excellent Indian spot near his school or this pretty tasty for central Europe Mexican restaurant (he says he really misses Mexican food…how could he not?)).

And the city itself? Yes, I look forward to visiting. But I’m less excited than I would have been in the past (I should DIG into this). Maybe because it hasn’t been that long since we’ve been there—only three months. Maybe because it is such an arduous effort to get there and the jet lag that comes with it. All I want to do is teleport there and be done. Airports and airplanes just suck.

But I do look forward to experiencing the city in a new season. Being able to be out and about without freezing our butts off. Lingering in the outdoors. Savoring the outdoors. Finding a bench and sitting and watching the world go by. Strolling.

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11:30a.m. and I’m out. Having a quick coffee at Mama Mia. Doing a little work. Feeling very nostalgic with less than a week in San Miguel. It is very surreal that feeling, knowing we may never be back.

Giving everything up. Again. Moving on, but still here, knowing how much life we’ve lived in San Miguel.

Man, everything I pass, everything I touch, everything I smell or taste or see—it’s visceral how much San Miguel is a part of me, of us. From the big bells that ring at 11:30, 11:45, and noon for midday mass. The small bells that chime the quarter hour from El Reloj in the jardin. The sound of thunder in June from the east as the clouds gather and the wind picks up and I’d better head home before the rain begins to fall.

Even the feel underfoot of the polished tan and salmon volcanic tuff of the sidewalk where you have step carefully if it’s wet or you just might slip. Or the rough plaster and concrete and brick and adobe walls as I drag my fingers along. And when I walk down Aldama or Jesus or Sollano, I feel like I’m walking on the backs of an army of a million cobblestone turtles lined up in the street.

And of course, I can’t help but continually doubt myself and ask if we’ve made the right decision.

But I know we need to go. Pati and I definitely need to go, but I wonder if we’ve made the right decision for E. We’ll always wonder that, I guess, and maybe only time will tell.

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Wrote a postcard. Czechia bound for 13 pesos and 50 centavos.

It’s a saxophone and no rain kind of almost-sunny-but-not-quite morning listening to “Tell Him I Said Hello” by Nicole Glover while the aroma of coffee mingled with old wood wafts through the cafe and the gentle sound of sing-song Spanish bounces in the background air.