I’m terrible at goodbyes. When the time comes for a goodbye with someone I deeply care about? I usually rush it; a hurried hug, or a quick squeeze of the hand. I haven’t yet learned that all things have their course, and in that course- it’s meaning.
A good friend is moving south. I see him probably the equivalent of only a couple times a year- but knowing he’s close, even online- has eased my concerns about so much in life since I’ve met him. I can think back to one of our first dates- he brought a spatula and we played miniature golf. I saw him struggle in the upcoming months and years with a sort of sadness that took over, and released. I wanted to fight it for him, but it was his, alone, to conquer. In the past year and a half or so- almost as quickly as we became close, we separated. We made plans I couldn’t keep. I stopped being online so much and eventually, we stopped really talking. He always gave the best advice with men, or illnesses- and he became my stand-in big brother- someone I always talked about. My Seanathon.
The act of saying goodbye, perhaps isn’t in saying it at all. It’s realizing how long everything’s been gone already- and the true desire that life didn’t get complicated, I didn’t make other choices, and that everything didn’t fall in the path of who we were, and are.
I feel so many goodbyes, lately. It seems that every attempt to hold the end of the fraying rope that was my old life- corporate America, regular paychecks, disenchantment even- all it’s left me is a few more rashes on my hands, and a determined outlook in my heart. It’s left me scathed- but here.
I look to the house- something I’ve become so proud of; something that started from one of the largest disappointments of my life. Something, that started from a goodbye. I think of the old Serenity house now- the bedroom at the top of the stairs- a small, fireplace when you walk in. I see it as I saw it when we opened the door at the showing: Not quite mine, decorated for someone else. But this house- the moment you walk in- even with it’s white walls, and constant smell of my neighbor’s chain smoking- looks like Ava and I. You walk in, and it tells you- this- THIS? Is Kate-Madonna’s Home. These are her things. See how anal she is? Her wood is always dusted, the only pictures you see are candid, blown-up, portraits of her daughter and her, and if you look closely? A toddler shoe will poke it’s head out from under the end table and greet you with sparkles, and pink, (or patent leather black- depending on Ave’s mood.) Seven months of building up something for us- the fears that it will fall- that the tables may not exist, or the picture frames, keeps me up at night in sordid worry.
Everyone tells me- this is the stepping stone until you find the prize. They all think so highly of me- and that’s, I suppose, what keeps me going. When someone believes in you- the bets are off. I know the first moment I held my daughter- as clique` as it sounds- the change was immediate and permanent. She’s teaching me the power of true independence and how to fight harder for what I so want.
Good friends, are like job’s we’ve done. (Which is not to take away the true love we have for them,) but with any job or position- we gain new ideas about the world and ourselves. Through Sean, (so far, at least,) I’ve learned to not be so serious, and I’ve watched one of the most brilliant people I know struggle- which has somewhat assured me- everyone, struggles. The exceptionally brilliant and kind- are not exempt. Letting go of who I was, just just letting go of a close connection here- is hard. He’ll move south, and be happier- (of that I’m sure.) It’ll be like when I pass French Meadow and think of my favorite career political- Rigdon- sharing every story from his day as I dug into my chocolate cake. I’ll think of him when I drive by Green Mill, or when I pass the Riverview Theatre. All, such good memories.
I’d like to think that maybe- someone thinks of me, (as vain and idiotic as it may seem,) while they’re grabbing the mail out of our floor’s cubicle, or on the elevator to go down to the Great Hall. “Kate was here, and she was fantastic.” Which I know will never be uttered, but maybe, “That girl? The one who always said hi… what happened to her?” I’d like to think the Riverview and the Green Mill will echo those things about Sean with me- except I’ll know the secret.
He went off and accomplished more- just by changing his scenery.
Dude- aren’t we all. (Aren’t we all.)
