The Beginning of the End

At long last, we have arrived.

The last day of normality, the end of the good days and the beginning of the ones I tried to forget were coming. I'd forgotten what these days were going to feel like. 

Now I know there's a reason I forgot.

And so I stare one last time at our den full of couches and carpet, my room full of pictures and familiar bedding, the kitchen full of dishes and paper, and the house itself, full of that feeling I never thought I'd get back: Home. 

Tomorrow that will be gone, leaving only the necessary clothes, government furniture, bare walls, and suitcases, the telltale sign of change for me. So I'm going to stay away for as long as possible. I'm going to hide at someone else's house and prolong that awful moment when I have to come home to a home that's forever gone from me. 

Funny, I never expected it to end like this.

I mean, I knew I'd be sad eventually. But given that my first year in this place was spent wishing I was back in the old one, I came to the subconscious conclusion that I'd invest just enough to hug a few and cry a little at the end, but be happy nonetheless.

Even last summer, I cried with joy at returning to the recurring familiarity of the homes of my grandparents and cousins. I loved the feeling of being there. Now, the very thought of being there makes me cry with sorrow. Because I know that once I'm there, I'll never come back here. The feeling of those places will mean the loss of this one. Which is a deep kind of sadness that is almost impossible to bear. 

But I made a promise to myself, that I wouldn't check out, or push people away, or draw back, but connect, plug in, and finish fully and well. And I did, and I still will. I'm engaging more fully than ever, up till the very end. But the reason people disengage towards the end, and don't dive in, is because it hurts. It hurts more than I can convey or even fathom myself. The act of strengthening bonds to their strongest just before they are severed is one of the most painful things a person can experience.

I never thought it would be so hard. 

It got so bad indoors that I had to escape and just walk. All over the last stretches of the neighborhood I now love. I kept trying to cry, to dislodge the lump in my throat. I paced, I threw a water balloons at trees and road, but it wasn't until I was on the last stretch of sidewalk on the main road that it hit me full force:

In time, this place, that I can feel under my feet and touch and smell and listen to, will become nothing more than a hazy picture, a dim memory, just like all the other ones, with no life or feeling behind it. There's no escaping that. It just happens over time. It was the hardest blow. I curled up in a ball right there on the sidewalk and cried. 

Because this is more than just happy memories, and good friends, and yummy asian food, and favorite places. This is my familiarity, my security blanket of normality, my comfortable, tiny little world. This is where I've done lots of my growing up, in every sense of the word. I've been taught so much and even taught things myself. I've become who I am right now, and I still feel as if I've got more growing up to do here before I start the cycle again. I'm not ready. 

I'm not ready to say goodbye.