I'M LEAVING IN THREE DAYS, and the momentum is building now. That feverish thrill of the prospect of exploring new territory. That curiosity to see what's on the other side of the mountain, the continent, the ocean. The guilt of leaving Sue, Addi, and Teal for the hundredth time, and the fear of what would happen if I didn't come back.

I'm trying to be with them as much as I can. Friday night, a family movie and a bowl of homemade caramel corn. Saturday at Addi's state volleyball tournament, Sunday at Teal's soccer game. Last night Teal read to me from an adventure mystery I read at her age, The Haunted Treasure of the Espectros. Addi read me her latest story, "The Perfect Girl," written from a boy's perspective.

When they get home from school, I just want to lie on the couch and listen to them practice piano, but I can't. I'm on deadline. Sometimes even when I'm home, I'm not.

The day before I leave, Teal knocks on my study door and wants me to come out and play. Pained, I tell her no.

"That's OK," she says.

She comes close and peers over my shoulder at the computer screen.

"You know, when you're gone, before bed I come in here and sit in your chair just to be close to you," she says.

I'm gutted.

Without my home, a place to leave from and return to, travel would be impossible for me. In the balancing scale of life, home is the antipodal counterweight to travel. It is the hand that holds the kite string—and, should the string snap, the kite will twist and fold and drop from the sky like a buckshot bird.