It’s a hot afternoon. Conrad and I have been sorting though boxes in the garage, getting rid of half of the carefully wrapped kitchenware and sorting through books. Mom came outside to paint her toenails. I take a break with a cold beer and I sit next to her. Conrad joins us for a little while complaining about the nail polish smell. He thinks the grumpy mood is cute, so he honors us with it from time to time.
It’s so quiet in the neighborhood. The wind shivers the tall trees, stirring up the heat. I take another sip of my IPA and I tell mom about Conrad’s question the other day “what will you miss the most from here?”. I said I’ll miss my job and Conrad said he’ll miss the weather. The answer I get to me missing my job is either: “are you joking?”, or “I think you’ll make do”. But some understand what I mean. Then I stop for a moment and I tell mom that I think I’ll miss her the most. Our departure is a long ways away, but the joy and fun and comfortability of our friendship is a cruel reminder of how much we’ll miss each other.
This made me think of the Summer of 2003, and a poem I wrote as I was getting ready to go off to college. It’s hard to say goodbye, and yet I have done it numerous times. 2003 had been a rich year, with accomplishments and new friendships; that was the first Lemudim year. But in my poem I caught the glimpse of my parents shy tears as the reality of my departure became imminent. I remember praying that God would fill the empty space left by my absence, and that they will be comforted somehow…
It is a blessing to see and feel so deeply. We are so alive, in our ache and our longings. I would rather be loved and painfully missed than to be wished away.
I had left again later on, a place that welcomed me as a newcomer, Cluj. I had formed great friendships there as well, and yet life called me farther away 4 years later. Each time, with plenty emotional planning and preparing, leaving was not made any easier by any means. I took off moving to California in 2007, following my heart. My goodbyes are always stoic, and yet, I sometimes cry after we close the door, embark and take off.
I am free like the wind, and where I linger I think of what to give and not what to take. It’s never about me…
My parents are in the midsts of uprooting themselves from where they lived most of their lives, to move to Cluj, to be close to us.
How can we taste joy and sadness in the same cup?