A tradition of exile

I married into a nomadic family.

The last three generations of his people have move abroad for love.

And he laughed when his grandfather called it ridiculous when he decided to move for me.

He called his bluff and told him that he had moved to Africa during the war. His sweetheart followed him and they married there.

He moved for me and I did for him.

We both gladly gave up all we knew for each other.

I take pride in having jumped down the cliff without looking.

He told me the other day when we heard someone talk, once again, about moving to another country (and not follow through with those plans) that we are adventurers.

We follow through.

I've always thought it was my orphaned foolishness. Nomadic life is, after all, not in my heritage.

But yet it might be.

On my father's side there is nothing before my grandfather.

As if the universe started, on his side, with him and no one else.

I've heard the story many times before: Three brothers came from a Southern state. My grandfather was left in one town, his younger brother in another and the eldest went to another one.

It has never made sense to me since it sounds so infinitely sad.

I've moved three times into the unknown, thousands of miles away.

I am, after all, my grandfather's heir.