Driving away
There's something about being in a vehicle that makes leaving somewhere so much harder.
Earlier this year, I wrote a long post (as part of a project I promise I haven't forgotten) about a surge of emotion driving to my grandparents' house after college graduation. Such an incident wasn't the first.
The night before Angel left for college, we sat out in my parents' old Honda Civic, in her driveway, bawling and hugging. A few days later, I sniffled softly to myself as we pulled away from the house, lugging my meager possessions, on my own path to college. I cried on the plane, gazing out the window at my family, waving from the gate inside, as we taxied out to the runway on my way to France for two and a half months my junior year of college. Later that trip, I sobbed on the train on the way to Paris and home. I cried when I left OU, and I still tear up almost every time I leave my family--even after a short weekend visit.
I'm accustomed to the tears; in fact, I expect them.
For the last few weeks, I'd been telling those who asked the same things--"I'm numb," "It's not real to me yet," "It probably won't sink in until I'm gone." I meant them.
I had flashes of sadness, of course, of things and people I would miss, but I was mostly just going through the motions of packing and organizing. Even the dog seemed to be taking the move harder than I was. She moped around the boxed-up house, positioning herself strategically between me and the door wherever I was.
Even the night before I left, as my friends helped me load up the storage containers, it wasn't real. We sat around, drinking beer and eating pizza, and reminiscing about funny stories or events. They made me smile, not frown. And when they rose to leave, I hugged them all tightly, but still couldn't feel anything more than misty eyes.
Finally, the next day, after the cleaning was finished, after the last item had been packed, after I had handed in my keys and shut the front door softly, I ambled into the car and started the engine. I found some good music on the radio. I adjusted the headset for my phone. I took a deep breath. And as I pulled away from the curb, my leaving DC was no different than any other goodbye.
Earlier this year, I wrote a long post (as part of a project I promise I haven't forgotten) about a surge of emotion driving to my grandparents' house after college graduation. Such an incident wasn't the first.
The night before Angel left for college, we sat out in my parents' old Honda Civic, in her driveway, bawling and hugging. A few days later, I sniffled softly to myself as we pulled away from the house, lugging my meager possessions, on my own path to college. I cried on the plane, gazing out the window at my family, waving from the gate inside, as we taxied out to the runway on my way to France for two and a half months my junior year of college. Later that trip, I sobbed on the train on the way to Paris and home. I cried when I left OU, and I still tear up almost every time I leave my family--even after a short weekend visit.
I'm accustomed to the tears; in fact, I expect them.
For the last few weeks, I'd been telling those who asked the same things--"I'm numb," "It's not real to me yet," "It probably won't sink in until I'm gone." I meant them.
I had flashes of sadness, of course, of things and people I would miss, but I was mostly just going through the motions of packing and organizing. Even the dog seemed to be taking the move harder than I was. She moped around the boxed-up house, positioning herself strategically between me and the door wherever I was.
Even the night before I left, as my friends helped me load up the storage containers, it wasn't real. We sat around, drinking beer and eating pizza, and reminiscing about funny stories or events. They made me smile, not frown. And when they rose to leave, I hugged them all tightly, but still couldn't feel anything more than misty eyes.
Finally, the next day, after the cleaning was finished, after the last item had been packed, after I had handed in my keys and shut the front door softly, I ambled into the car and started the engine. I found some good music on the radio. I adjusted the headset for my phone. I took a deep breath. And as I pulled away from the curb, my leaving DC was no different than any other goodbye.
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