The Noamdic Life

Chapter 43

The Nomad’s Journey Ends

Life without Dewey, and now Grandpa, has caused everything inside me to shift. San Diego no longer feels like home. The city is changing so fast I can barely breathe. Jan has drifted away, and I am working two jobs just to keep food in my belly and a roof over my head. I can feel it. The time draws near, and I must close the book on this once-beautiful city and consider beginning a new chapter somewhere new.

My mind is fogged with grief. I mourn Dewey’s death, but Grandpa’s passing has hollowed out my soul completely. It has stolen my will to survive. Still, I know I have to fight through this heaviness. I must devise a plan and move forward. I am tired, so very tired of trying to convince myself that I belong here, tired of pretending I am happy, and most of all, tired of believing I matter to anyone.

I find myself needing change, purpose, and a new direction, but I have no idea where to go.

I think about Grandpa often, about our quiet visits in his apartment. How he looked at me with pride, making me feel seen, loved and understood. In his eyes, I mattered. My mind wanders to past days spent in Cincinnati. God help me I even miss the tension between Dad and me, those headstrong arguments that always seemed to end in silence. “Why can’t we just be like every father and son?” he once asked, frustration burning in his voice. And I, with a smart mouth but honest heart, told him, “Dad, we are like most fathers with an adult son, you refuse to see me as a grown man. Until you accept me as I am, these arguments will continue.” Back then raised voices were our only means of conversation.

But now, after all this time, I finally see what I could not then: family, in all its imperfections, is what matters most. The closeness I felt with Dad and David at Grandpa’s memorial lingers in my heart. I miss them both more than I can say.

Dad has softened a little since then. His emails and video calls carry less anger, more nostalgia, but he still refuses to say the one thing that matters most. He never truly asks for forgiveness. He talks around it, offering sugar-coated words meant to smooth things over, hoping I will take the blame instead. But I cannot and will not. Until he admits that he is the reason I left, the bridge between us will remain broken. And yet, the thought of going home still calls to me.

But can I risk it again? Could I survive being thrown out of his life one more time?

Lately, my health has been failing. I cannot afford my medication, and my body is wasting away. My reflection startles me, hollow cheeks, tired faded and sunken eyes, combine to show a man who may have little time left on this rock. Between the illness and the depression, I feel the fight draining from me.

And maybe… maybe that is all right.

I have had a good run, decades of wandering and searching, of learning who I am. I have seen and lived in places most people only dream about. I have met souls who taught me, broke me, healed me, and changed me. The road has been long, and I finally feel it slowing beneath my feet. The nomad’s journey nears its end.

For the first time in years I feel at peace.

I have spent so long chasing happiness, but what was I really seeking? What was I trying to prove? Why has joy always slipped through my fingers like sand?

Maybe there was never meant to be an answer. Maybe traveling was the point. Still, I find myself longing for something steady, a safe harbor. San Diego once gave me that, but now it feels like an echo of what it used to be. Friends have drifted away. The city feels unfamiliar and no longer inviting. The atmosphere continues to change, and I no longer feel like I belong.

Dad, on the other hand, has always been grounded. Having been born and raised in Cincinnati he is content. In the decades he spent in Cincinnati, he carved out a peaceful niche of comfort and familiarity. He never once felt the need to roam, never wanting to escape. The Queen City has always been enough for him. But me? I have been running since childhood. After Mom remarried, we moved from base to base, never long enough to grow roots. I learned early as a child that nothing lasts, not homes, friendships, or even love. You stop expecting permanence after a while. You can no longer trust it.

And family?

That has been its own battlefield. As a boy, I learned to brace for cruelty, to accept pain as proof of existence. I realized at a young age love was conditional. As someone’s punching bag, someone’s therapy I had worth. And when that is how you have learned to measure yourself, you grow up believing love is something earned through endurance.

Maybe that is why I became a wanderer. To search for that all illusive home I never experienced.

For years, I wrote about perfect families and happy endings. They were beautiful stories I would lose myself in, giving me the illusion of safety, even if I could only live that kind of life through the fictional lives and chapters I wrote. But now, even the words are slipping from me. As my body weakens, the mind grows tired. This may be the day my body quits, and I am prepared.

I have made peace with the fact that I will leave little behind. No legacy, no mark on the world. No one will be able to say they truly knew me. The people I have met will forget me soon enough, and truthfully, I will forget them too. It is a fair trade, I suppose. Except for the two souls who truly matter, the rest were just passing travelers, like me.

So, I whisper into the darkness: Lord, take me if you will. I’m ready. If Heaven refuses me, then Hell best make room.

I drift off to sleep, realizing this could very well be my last night.

Then, as always, the dream returns. Dad apologizes, admitting to me he was wrong, and should never have banished me from his house. The dream grows clearer, slowly fading in. Dad and David’s home home comes into focus, two Christmas trees glowing, one in the living room adorned with traditional ornaments, some passed down through generations. And then there is a smaller one in the dining room. David’s tree, sporting shiny little roller coaster cars, Ferris wheels and other rides I do not recognize. I see Harley, amidst the chaos, wagging his tail. My heart sinks for the puppy as I know how it feels to desperately seek Dad’s attention. P.G. is curled into a tiny tight furball in David’s lap, Polar begs to be noticed while Spike glares at me, still offended I allowed a dog to infiltrate his kingdom. Their house is full of love, chaos and belonging, all rolled into one. No wonder it haunts my sleep. I wake, the ache of a wish that will never come to pass still heavy on my chest. It is just a dream, I tell myself. Cincinnati will never call me back home.

Morning arrives, cruel, bright, and uninvited. The sunlight creeps through the blinds, and I curse its persistence. I am not ready to face it, not like this.

Today, though, I wake with a little more strength. Maybe I will go out and get some air, maybe even feel alive for a while. But before I leave, as always, I must check my email. And there it is, an email from Dad.

My heart tightens.

He talks about life at home, about Harley growing, about little things that should not matter but somehow do. Then, at the end, the words that undo me:

“I’m sorry, son. I was wrong to tell you that if you leave you were not welcomed back home. I love you. I need you. Please consider coming back home, we all need you, David and Harley too.”

It is the apology I never thought I would see. My first instinct is doubt, he has spoken sweet words before only to contradict himself later. But for some strange reason, this email feels different, real, honest and heartfelt.

I write back, fingers trembling:

“Dad, your words touched me. I appreciate your honesty. But I can’t pretend the past didn’t happen. You broke my heart. You made me believe I didn’t matter. I love you, but trust is a fragile thing, and to be honest, these words I have waited years to hear may have arrived too late. I don’t know if we can ever overcome our past.

I click send and make my way to Starbucks, where Dietrich’s coffee used to be. Same shop, but the vibe is quite different. There is now a more corporate feel, more financially driven. With time limit signs for the patio and adding insult to injury, they decreased the number of tables and chairs. With the welcome feeling gone, and after my second hazelnut coffee, I am as well.

This is going to be a much shorter day than I anticipated. There is nothing I need from Ralph’s or Trader Joe’s. I look longingly up toward Jan’s balcony; my heart breaks a little more. I miss him and always will. Seven years of hope ended so easily with him announcing we could no longer see each other. No explanation, just that one simple matter of fact statement. I knew better than to press for clarification. Some goodbyes leave you without closure or understanding.

Oh well, such is life, I think as I make my way back to Chula Vista.

I settle back in my room and grow bored.

I boot up the computer to see if anyone is on ICQII. (There always is)

While I wait for the program to open, I notice a notification. There is an email waiting to be read.

I am frightened. It is from David. He NEVER emails me. We rarely, if ever speak on the phone. Oh god, I hope something has not happened to Dad. It is odd my mind immediately goes to that scenario, but it does.

I sit there motionless as the cursor hovers over the envelope icon

I can put it off; I either open the email or delete it.

My finger, as if on autopilot clicks the left mouse button.

“Your dad isn’t doing well. Your Grandpa’s passing has really done a number on him. He keeps crying, blaming himself for breaking up our family. I know you’re angry, sometimes I am too. But he needs you now. I’m grieving too, for two people who meant everything to me, and he, he can’t see past his own pain to realize I need his compassion as well. Perry, if you can find it in your heart to forgive him, I promise, I’ll never let him hurt you again. You’re part of our family and always will be. Please come home. He needs you, and so do I.”

Had those words come from Dad, they might have bounced off my armor. But from David, the man who’s always loved quietly, and never asked anything for himself, they pierce straight through.

My recent existential crisis is still weighing heavy in my mind; this is the jolt I needed all along.

The decision I thought I would never have to make is upon me.

Every road I have taken, every wrong turn, every heartbreak, has moved me forward towards a new life, and new future.

Am I willing to step backwards or do I continue the never-ending path I am on, searching for a love and family that may never come to fruition, or do I backtrack, giving myself permission to move toward forgiveness, toward love.

These two roads before the nomad, one with seemingly endless possibilities, and the other, one I have already traveled and experienced. Knowing how rocky that road is, is it wise to relive the same mistake?   

From here, you can guess the ending to the nomad’s story.

All roads lead to home and family.

Twenty-one years later, the adventure continues, but the road is far less traveled. Once your true destination is reached, you unpack your bag, take off your shoes and breathe that heavy sign you have longed to expel, giving yourself permission to say, “I am home at last.”

The nomadic life, once exciting and filled with endless possibilities and adventure is no more.

With far fewer years ahead of be than behind, I look back fondly on those years. The memories are many, a life well spent.

Many ask, “If you could go back in time and change one thing…”

But to undo one mile I traveled, skip one city I passed through, or spare myself one heartbreak would be to unravel the very fabric of who I am. My scars, my missteps, my detours, they were all chapters that brought me to this final page. Now my later years find me in the company of my father, David, and an extended family who have folded me into their lives with love and grace. I may not own much, but by every measure that matters, I am rich.

So no, I wouldn’t change a thing. Every winding road, geographic, emotional, and spiritual has carried me to the place I was always meant to be, my final pin in the map.

The nomadic life isn’t for everyone. But for a wandering soul like mine, It was the path I was destined to take. It was the road to self-discovery.

And at the end of all my wandering, I learned the simplest truth: I was never lost, each misstep and each wrong turn, guided me home.