Packing up

I’ve been saying goodbye all month. Goodbye to people and places and pigeonholes. A goodbye stretched out too long even for me. Leaving and leaving and leaving but never gone and starting again. And of course, you never start again completely. Because everything you gouge out and throw away leaves a bit of a scar. I’m learning to love this unseen pattern of scars all along my past.

Separation, impending or imminent, highlights importance and unimportance. Faces and hearts and minds. The ones I will cherish. Carry through and through and through no matter where the world sets me. The others I will quietly wipe from the slate. Spend an evening shredding evidence and walk away smiling.

I’ve spend the last two days purging old memories. Photographs. Letters never sent. Half-written stories from half-my-life ago. Diaries of a seventeen-year-old me. But I kept the billet-doux passed in elementary school halls. Handwritten letters from lovers (former and current) and friends. All the bits explaining how I came to rest in this moment .

When the pictures have finally come down from the walls. After we have cleaned between the tinny echoes of empty rooms. Once the car is crackling forward on the gravel that never gets completely cleared from these streets. I may acknowledge the sadness of packing up and disconnection. I will frogleap into the west coast rain and resolve my life into waves.

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