What are we doing in Mexico, I mean, Colorado?

For everyone back home in Tampa, Spring Break ends today as teachers and students return to the classroom. I'm still in The Springs fluctuating between excited and scared, happy and downright morose. A joy to be around, I'm sure.

Every story must have a beginning and end because, let's face it, sequels suck. And so it appears that our time in Tampa is coming to an end.

Maybe not, though. What the hell do I know?

I suppose it shouldn't come as a shock that I hesitate to go. Back in June 1995, I was thrilled to leave Tampa for the first time. Left skid marks out of town. However, when we stopped at Becky's house (then in the outskirts of DC), I remember feeling so homesick I cried myself to sleep. First night in Boston it rained and I called home.

"It's not a summer rain," I cried into the phone. "It's one of those cold-ass northern rains. I don't know anyone here and we may have made the biggest mistake of our life!"

Dad knew how to put it all in perspective.

"Let me ask you a question," he said. "Are you in a foxhole? Are people shooting at you? Then you don't have it so bad."

Mom assured me after a good night's sleep, I'd see things differently. I did and grew to love the place.

In 2000, we left Boston and returned to Tampa. Second or third night back, my mother was watching Ally McBeal. I made it halfway through (eleven minutes of my life I'll never get back) and, although happy to be home, I cried every time they showed an exterior shot of Boston. I felt so attached to that town and our friends - I swore I'd never find peeps to love again.

Now that I've grown attached to Tampa, is it time to move on? The only reassurance I feel is that I'm sure to bounce back, yet again, and grow attached to our next home.

But first I need that good cry. So excuse me a moment.