There’s this weird part of living in a new place, about 1600 miles from anyone else I’ve ever known. It’s the part that I refer to as “the missing.” I hate that part. Isn’t it sad, that geographical distance between your loved ones and yourself? I find it sad anyway. Particularly when the only home I’ve really known has been within 20 minutes of my parents’ house, where I grew up. I hear this part gets easier though.