Anything.
Anything was better than home. John Lennon had just died and his music suddenly gripped me like the warm clutch of a lover's promise that first winter in Boston. He, and Bowie, and all that New Wave music sang to me of a life worth living . . . far from the one I left behind in my little lobster fishing town on Cape Cod.
Promises to his baby, promises to Yoko . . . these were all foreign things to someone who had never known love.
But still they pulled me. Called to me from radio airwaves and created cravings of . . . what? I didn't even know. But I felt embraced. Heard. Loved.
Of all the times to move to a new home . . . dead of winter. The worst one Boston had seen in years. I couldn't even afford the warmth of boots to cover my frozen feet as I waited for the T that was on strike and took hours to show up in absolutely frostbitten weather. Something pushed me beyond my comfort level.
I knew there was warmth and love and a life worth living there.
I stayed for ten years.
