Two Griefs Wearing the Same Season: Leaving
I’ve said goodbye my entire life.
Goodbye to cities.
Goodbye to people.
Goodbye to homes.
Goodbye to schools, jobs, lives lived.
Somewhere around the eleventh time I stopped counting.
I’m saying goodbye again.
Last October I wrote an essay about leaving Chelmsford. There was a sad wistfulness to it but there was hope because I knew I would be coming back.
I’ve said goodbye to Chelmsford multiple times since that first time.
And now I’m saying goodbye again.
But for the last time.
It doesn’t get any easier even though I’ve done it so many times.
In many ways it’s harder because I know what I am leaving.
At first Chelmsford was just a town. A city where we planted our feet because it was where Amanda’s school was. We started out in an Airbnb and then found our house. We furnished that house with furniture we collected from the British Heart Foundation. We paid our TV license and entered a two-year contract with Sky internet services. That house became a home and the trains, background.
Amanda joined a gym to swim then moved on to larger and more challenging swims. I discovered the joy of collecting Tesco points. We found our hole-in-the-wall noodle restaurant and the framers who mounted our art.
I learned how much better line-dried clothes feel, what brand of laundry detergent was “our brand.”
We learned that you always return your empty pint glasses to the bar and that it’s ok to say “hiyah” in an American accent.
We walked into town.
We went to our cafe for quiet breakfasts–Amanda reading her book and me working on my crossword.
We learned which buses took us home.
Now we have to start over.
Like always.
Again.
It’s not a death. And it’s not a tragedy.
But it’s not nothing, either.1
It is a different beginning.
There are things that are established:
Our Sky contract
Our laundry pods
Amanda’s swims
But now, there will be things unknown.
Where will we do our quick shop?
Where will we do our big shop?
Can I walk, take a bus, or do I have to drive?
Will this just be another place I have lived?
Will we settle?
Will it become home?
At some point, the sounds of home will become familiar.
We’ll find our new breakfast spot–where you sit and read your book and I do my crossword.
You’ll plant a new garden and I’ll get my rose bush.
Two Griefs Wearing the Same Season: Missing
Who knew that our song would be sung by a drag queen and a philosopher?
The first time we heard it together, we just knew.
Live in my house,
I’ll be your shelter
Open your door,
I’ll be your tenant
But sweet kisses, I’ve got to spare
I’ll be there and I’ll cover you
We have sung those words to each other so many times,
But this time, singing them in my head, by myself, they hurt.
This is what they must mean by no day but today.
It’s cliché, I know, but it’s real now.
It’s not that I took the days for granted, it’s that I just thought they would be there longer than they were.
I guess that is what taking it for granted means.
I miss the way you ask for a sweet treat from the corner store, knowing I’ll go get it.
I miss the way you give me your breakfast order, knowing I’ll bring it up on your tray.
I miss the way you tell me you need a snicky-snack, knowing I’m already in bed.
I love the way I have videos waiting for me when I wake up.
I love calling you, talking to you, seeing you.
But it’s this weird duality of love and dislike because I know at some point, we will have to sign out.
I hate that.
You traveled 12 hours to pick up the keys.
You called the movers.
You will be packing up our new life for an even newer one.
Text, FaceTime, and WhatsApp–none of it feels like enough.
I know it’s not permanent, but the resolution is still far away.
I know it’s not permanent, but I don’t know when it will resolve.
I know it’s not permanent, but the space is what is slowly killing me.
Once again,
at some point,
you will sit on the couch and I’ll sit in my chair.
We will find our new favorite coffee shop.
And I’ll have our keys in my pocket.
One Hope Wearing a New Season: Staying
I never fall asleep easily when I’m not in bed with her.
I would lie awake when she was away at births.
I lie awake now, trying to sleep in a bed 4,200 miles away.
I will see her when she and Ivy come home for Christmas.
And assuming everything goes as planned, I will return with her on Jan 2, 2027.
With her.
Not traveling back and forth.
Not worrying whether I stayed in the UK too long.
Not saying goodbye.
I will be back with her for good.
Neither of us handles the separation well.
We planned a two-week reunion.
I would come to her. See the house. See Barrow.
She went to work.
I went to Tesco.
I made dinner and listened to her day.
We got caught up in Celebrity Traitors.
One day, we didn’t get out of bed.
Another day, we went to Manchester.
And yet another day, we took a road trip to Coniston.
I had never been through the Furness peninsula.
Driving through the Lake District, I was reminded of Wordsworth’s copses and hedge-rows.
And I marveled–
This might be almost as beautiful as Wales.
Florida has heat, minute-long thunderstorms, and hurricanes.
Barrow has sideways rain and gusts of wind that will turn an umbrella inside out.
It also has the smell of autumn.
That earthy, rich smell of soil–something I haven’t felt in 45 years.
She had to attend a training in Lancaster on her birthday.
My phone pinged.
She sent me a screenshot of an email:
Her work visa had come through.
That night, we had Chinese takeaway with duck spring rolls.
I know that sadness comes in the night.
But I also know that Joy comes in the morning.
Though the morning may be blustery and stormy,
We are together.
We have certainty.
And our milk is delivered on Mondays and Thursdays.
Beverly Beckham, "I was the sun, the kids were my planets," Boston Globe, August 27, 2006.