An early morning thought in my sleep felt insistent enough that I woke up, grabbed my phone, and dictated it to a text note (something I never do): When my father died, I inherited the idea that there was somewhere else you could go to get away. Then I fell back asleep. And now, downstairs and reasonably awake, the question arises: Huh? Is this something meaningful, or just the random detritus of a fitful sleep? For the sake of contemplation, I will choose to find it meaningful. And then a long-dormant memory surfaces, from about 20 years ago: Not long after my father received his pancreatic cancer diagnosis, he confided to me that he wanted to leave my mother and move away, alone. Somewhere, anywhere. To start a new life, unburdened. The recollection of his desperate imaginings, this last futile gesture at asserting his own needs, moves me to tears this morning. And now I hear my dream thought as a pandemic message: Watch for that fantasy that it is possible to get away from your sorrows simply by changing your outer circumstances. The truth: You are here. There is no Somewhere Else.