Likely for the last time we rode our annual trek to the coast. We biked up the same hills. We stayed where we always stay.
We saw what we always see. Nothing was missing.
We were as tired as we always were, when we arrived. And the next day, too.
We were just as glad to rest and stroll around the familiar coastal streets as we have been before. No empty void around the edges anywhere, everything just as full and present as every other time that we've been here.
We had hoped that something might have worked out -- that job opportunities would open back up here, that we might be able to rent our house and return in a couple of years, that we could bear the commute another year. But every weekend it got harder to have Fritz go.
And every avenue we've tried has been a dead end -- except the road that will take us away from here.
And then we rode our bikes home.
For as long as we can still call this home.