The Only Living Boy Not Living In New York

I am in the loneliest place on Earth. The American Airlines Admirals Club at JFK. I am only in the club because the hundreds of flights I've flown from Los Angeles to New York and back again have given me status. Upgrade status. But right now nothing can soothe me. Not even a Business Class seat.

An hour ago I got in a car that drove me away from my waving, chin quivering Mom. She stood on West 12th street, a cocktail of cold winds and her baby boy leaving brought the tears. The car drove off before I could see if her tears froze and before she could see my eyes well. I've gotten in that car too many times. The car to the airport to the city across the country where I live. I have been leaving New York for 8 years now. And with each bag packed and every security check-in, my heart breaks a little more.

My seven month pregnant wife and I arrived in the West Village two days before Christmas. In the last three weeks we have had twelve dinners with my parents and seven visits with my brother, sister-n-law and three nephews. We saw five plays. We went to three museums. We tried out red velvet cupcakes at atleast nine bakeries. We saw every single one of our Manhattan based friends. We saw some of them more than once. We experienced countless flavors of weather. We want to come home. We desperately want to come home.

These three thousand miles between Los Angeles and New York have become far too wide. My wife, a recently promoted network television executive was conveniently laid off when she hit her seventh month of pregnancy. As she cried from the injustice of it she began to smile when she realized she could stay in New York for a few more days. A few more days to milk the last drops of home. We don't support lay offs but we do sponsor finding the silver lining. And for us, 72 extra hours in our cobblestoned West Village surrounded by our people is kind of, just kind of worth a lay off.

I can sum it up with our family dog, Kelsee. She is 17 years old. Her legs are giving out. She has lost too much weight. She has taken to peeing in my parent's living room. She's old. And she's going. And I told my Mom that when Kelsee goes and I get a phone call in Los Angeles I want the information instantly. No baited breath. No emotion. Just the news. I will then get on a plane and fly home, stoic. Then when I see my Mom I will cry. I will sob. I will crumble. But I don't want to fall apart so far away. In fact, I no longer want news delivered from so very far away. I don't want to hear that my nephew's 3rd birthday was great or that my Dad loved his dinner at Tortilla Flats or that my brother had a barbeque on a Sunday or that someone is sick or hurt or dead. Not across states and skies. I want to come home. I desperately want to come home.

I'm on the plane now. The business class seat is comfortable. I wonder if my mom is pouring herself a glass of white wine. If my Dad, briefcase in tow, is getting on the 2/3 then walking 14th street to 8th Ave to West 12th and Washington to home. To Home. Home.