For a while before I moved, my time in San Francisco was hanging by a loose, chipping love. When you love something for a very long time, you forget how to stop that particular form of love, even when you are growing out of it and growing into someone who will change in loving something else. In a way, to move was a hard decision to make: The fear of the unknown. The fear of making a wrong decision. The wobble in your being when you are paying more attention to the thin legal story that stitches you to a country than to the certainty—wild in your soul, moving like grasses in a breeze—that is the call and sturdiness of spirit.