Weeds, Quakes and Fissures

My husband once had a dream that we lived in an apartment with one side in New York and one side in California. I imagine the New York side sinking into the East River as the California side rises, inching its way across the plains until reaching the edge of the other coast. My mind has been inching slowly for years.
Some friends gave us some drink coasters that had images of each coast and were properly labeled: East Coaster or West Coaster. For a long time D claimed use of the East Coaster and I recently noticed that the West Coaster sat on his desk stained from many days, perhaps months, of use.

Like the ones I plucked from my grandmother's garden with a butter knife, I am like a weed that keeps coming back. Ultimately, and without question, I am always drawn back to my adopted home state. I never have known why. I trust this feeling because it has never subsided.
New York is an island that moves swiftly and without reason. If you stop too abruptly it might swallow you whole, no apology. It pulls at you and somehow you remain standing, occasionally tripping and bruising your knees. You walk on as if nothing has happened, because it is what you expect. It dresses up like a fancy lady with ill fitting shoes. It walks heavy and hard and you dodge its shoving motion, but still, it propels you. This time it propels you to leave. You smile and say goodbye to "the city", a high maintenance friend with lots to offer and not enough to give.
In California you feel more like yourself, more alive. As you rest calmly, the earth quakes. It is familiar but still astounds you. You are more forgiving of its faults, not the kind that split the earth, but the kind that could create fissures in your soul.