Goodbyes are wretched: the pause between opened and closed doors, before one car drives away or a person disappears down a sidewalk, the awkward/heartfelt/unhappy/loving/gracious-God-and-merciful-deliver-us/Alas Egypt/when-will-we-three-meet-again? hugs, the rounded out conversations that keep tangling over an inevitable parting, standing around, waiting for an excuse to keep talking. Goodbyes leave me with a tight spine and a dizzy stomach.
If I know you, I've been saying goodbye to you all week. You may not have realized.
I've been especially gruesome about it. With each tap on somebody's shoulder or glass passed to another person's reaching hand, I've added to myself: "I wonder if that's for the last time." You know: "Shall I ever look down into this valley again? Run on sweet rivers of the land of my youth, may others enjoy your rest for I must go away. Fill to me the parting glass, goodnight and joy be with you." Perfectly morbid and ridiculous, I am aware. The move north has taken on the dimensions and panic of an apocalypse.
Tonight here I am, box-surrounded, and feeling (let's be honest) miserable and alone in all the wide world, shuffling the mortal coil along like a good sinner. There are times when one simply wants one's mommy. One instead must come to terms with an existence wherein one must solider on using one's own feet and stop being such a fool. One must grow up sometime this side of death. It might as well be now while one is still nine parts elastic, adaptable to change and the random scattering of emotions. It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall. Or something.
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