A letter to Sacramento
Dear Sacramento,
I just can’t do this anymore.
It’s not you, it’s me. I promise. There was a time when I thought we’d spend the rest of my life together–and I know, it wasn’t that long ago. I just think we found each other too young. People grow up, priorities change. I’m not the same person I once was. Where I once searched for comfort and security, I’m now seeking passion and adventure.
You could still be the one–but how will I know if I don’t go out and see other cities? I don’t know what I want, but I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to have regrets, that nagging feeling of what could have been. The sneaking suspicion that things could have, would have been different if only I had dared.
I know that we share a lot of the same friends, but they were yours first. I know that they’ll choose you over me, so I’m not going to try and fight you. Heck, my family even likes you more than me.
Some of the memories we shared, I’ll never be able to recreate anywhere else. Late nights at Willie’s after high school football games and back-home-from-college parties. Laughing over deep-fried Snickers and Ferris wheel rides at the State Fair. Heck, you taught me how to parallel park in midtown while simultaneously texting and sipping a latte.
I finally feel like you’re growing into the city I want you to be, the city I know you could be. You’re taking an interest in the arts, you’ve set up the perfect date night. You’re the perfect mix of pierced and politics, cow town and capital.
We’ve talked about settling down, debating the merits of a cottage in Land Park and a Fab 40’s splurge. I’ve daydreamed about a wedding in McKinley Rose Garden and sending the kids to Christian Brothers.
“If you love something, Set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.”
It’s time for me to leave. Maybe this time it’s forever, maybe I’ll realize my mistake and be back before you know it. I love you, but I’ve got a one-way ticket to Sydney and I can’t let you hold me back any longer.
Sincerely,
Christine
