Layla's Dark and Foreboding Weblog

This past weekend I went home. Back to San Francisco, that is. While New York is where I grew up, went to school, etc., I never felt "home" there. The sad thing is, what made San Francisco "home" is no longer.

While my brother J and I weren't close growing up, my move to CA when I was 21 enabled us to get to know each other better as people, rather than siblings. We had the usual brother/sister fights as kids, but we almost started fresh as adults. We saw each other through major life changes - my move with P to an area completely foreign to us, his dating S, the birth of their first child, J starting a new company, their wedding, my wedding to P, my awful break up with P, the stupid decisions made, the birth of S & J's second child, my trainwreck of a relationship to B, moving away, P’s death, moving back, standing still.

I didn't realize as it was happening was that I was cultivating the most important relationships of my life. My brother J and his wife S became more than great family, they were my best friends. Their children were the basis of what good life could be.

In late winter of 2003, we all rented a big house in SF, one with 2 apartments. I lived in the bottom apartment with my dog, Parker, and J, S and their 2 kids, C and M lived in the top. We had separate entrances, and could have completely separate lives if that's what we wanted. Instead, we used the stairway that would normally be locked to move up and down through the house. In the mornings, I would hear the kids start their giggling, while jumping up and down in their parents’ bed. They'd race around the house, and would get shushed, "Layla is sleeping!" M, my niece, would answer, "Layla’s sleeping?" in what she thought was a hush, but was closer to a raspy yell.

Each night, I'd come home from work and settle in for a few minutes. Then, I'd make my way upstairs to see about dinner. We wound up eating together most nights, my love for cooking overshadowed by my love for someone cooking for me. S would whip together fabulous meals and we'd drink bottles of Two Buck Chuck and smoke cigarettes until our voices were horse. My niece would say, "Let's go feed Parker!" and we'd race downstairs so she could go through the whole routine that she loved so much. "Sit!" she'd command, Parker obediently listening to her every word. "Stay!" Wag wag wag..."OKAY!" And off he'd go, chowing down to the music of M's giggling, dancing nightly repertoire.

I'd look at my nephew C, who is going to be 9 years old next month, and think, "We were such kids." And we were. My brother and his wife were so young when they had him; no one knew what the fuck to do. But they did it. And they did it well. Lucky for them, they were blessed with an amazingly clever, witty and beautiful boy who had so many people to help out. He was lucky to have parents like that. Is lucky.

About a year and a half after moving in with them, I moved out, to come here to Dallas. It was sad for me. These kids were like my own. Never did I think I could build a bond with anything like the way I had with C and M. But, I knew that I was only a plane ride away, and I have managed to visit with them quite a bit since coming here. C is so aloof now, and you can't snuggle and kiss him anymore. He's over that. M is the complete opposite, the more kisses the better. She'll be 5 this summer. A few years off from hating the snuggle, at least.

And, S, my sister-in-law. The daughter my mother always wanted. She's the diplomat of our combustible family. The only one who my father is afraid of crossing. She's the voice of reason for my brother's zany antics. She also is the best listener, advice giver and doctor I've ever had. Granted, she's not a doctor, but she works in proximity to them, therefore, she's the closest we've got. She's also grown to be my best friend, a woman that I truly admire for her honestly and generosity, not to mention her parenting skills. And they did that all on their own.

My brother J is someone who you can't describe completely. Once you've known him a few years, you think you've pretty much gotten him figured out. Then he does something so fucked up and weird, you have to start all over. He says *anything* that comes to his mind. Anything. He loves music so much, but has been cursed with no coordination, a poor singing voice, and the inability to sing the right lyrics after years of practice. Honestly, though, that's one of my favorite qualities of his. He is funny and fun. He's a great friend. And so, so easy to fuck with. Every time you talk to him, he’s got a new idea, a new story and new thing that he want to start on right away. His creativity is admirable, and all his own, despite what my mother might think.

So, this past weekend I spent in California. Saying goodbye to my amazing family. They're moving next week to Ireland, where S is from. This has been years coming, but that's not to say that it's been easy. They are my best friends, the ones I call for everything. I have been trying so hard to keep it together, to not be the sobbing wreck my mother is, or the stoic person my father is. It's hard, though. I know that my need for them to be by me is purely selfish, that they NEED to do this. Just like I needed to come here. It doesn't make it easier though. I expected that when I got pregnant, S would come and stay with me and help me (as if she doesn't have a life of her own).

I'm a mess now. I am going to miss them so much. And I'm going to miss my city. Sure, I have my dad there still, and my friends, but it's not the same as seeing my little M squealing and running into my arms, or C asking me about the best strategy for slaughtering Orcs. I know it will be fine, and I know that I'll see them. I know they have to do this, and they'll be great there. Shit, I love it there, and I love S's family so much. C and M will have cousins to play with and S and J will have tons of friends there - friends that left SF a few years back to go back to Dublin. They will be great.

And, it's really only a plane trip away.