When you are preparing to leave for a very long time, the normalcy takes on a trait previously absent. Almost pining; almost remorseful. The comforts to which you have grown so accustomed, well, they will soon be gone. The shadow of a mother, the repetitive routines of family which have been so suffocating now seem much more bearable. Already nostalgic, each argument is sweeter and made shorter by the looming weight of your soon-to-be absence. This is where your flowers have grown. This is where you have seen your shape change in the mirror, in the way you walk. This is where you have become, quite suddenly, an adult.
You have left before, to adventure, to taste new tastes. But always to come back for long stretches of time; each absence had a foreseeable end. This one does not. This one is long and hard, and there will be months between each visit. Your parents understand. Your parents see this. And already they have begun to choke on tears despite the hours and days which remain with your presence strong, and vibrant. You begin to realize you will miss them fiercely. It was only this summer you learned to accept them as they come; to embrace their flaws, their shortcomings. For years you have slowly begun to acknowledge they are only people, as are you, not the giants that all children believe their parents to be, beyond reckoning. You have begun to disdain them in your vain adolescence, but it was a mistake to do so. Time is too short for hatred, for cruelty. You will leave with red hands regardless, and a stomach full of churning.
Because this is the place you have been for nineteen years. You have known the street names; the people. The cashier at the quick-market knows your name and asks about school when you go in to buy sour candy and a liter of water. He was there when you were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, older. He was there when you would come in after track practice and buy chocolate milk. The familiarity aches. It is a town full of people who ask about your family.
You have left before, for two years, but lived only an hour and a half away and returned on weekends to do your laundry. You have smoked cigars on mountaintops overlooking your small village and you have had sex in front of a park at twelve-o'clock. You have run down steep hills in summer sandals in the dark, laughing so hard your ribs ached, never-fearful of stumbling. You have cried outside one of the three restaurants in town and have felt yourself betrayed at the fairgrounds. You sister has lived next door for six years, a walk away, and it has always been easy for you to visit her, to get a glass of fruit-filled water or a snack with nutella. You have spent years running on the streets near your home, and in the trail of the woods. You know the bends by the stream and the sound of the stars at night.
You have spent years wanting to escape. You have spent years erecting a vision of your future; but one vision must take place of the last and suddenly you have come to realize there is so much to be lost here, to be missed, like the names of your neighbor's horses and the baleful baying of the dogs next-door. Do not even think of your own dog's eyes, as she looks at you so lovingly, because how many more times will you see them before she grows old and is gone?
There is a beautiful simplicity in knowing where the milk goes in the fridge, or how the cabinets are organized, in the blue of the lava lamp above your bed, in the fold of your favorite blanket. You have been sleeping in the same-colored sheets for five years and you have a wall of books you have yet to read. But they will wait for the two weeks of Christmas when you are home, won't they?
That's the thing, that's the rub. You aren't certain if the rest of the things will wait. Your niece and nephews are to grow much older. Your dog is to grow sad in your absence, as no one will take her on walks or pet her until their hands are tired. Your parents won't go out to eat as often; they won't come into your bedroom, excited, to tell you of some new and ridiculous idea. In your father's case, who is he to go to sentimentally at night? Who is to stay and turn off his television, when he has drank too much whiskey and fallen asleep at nine p.m.? No one will dust your room and they will certainly organize your closet wrong, if they touch it.
There is something terribly sad in all of this, this growing up, and no one who leaves returns quite the same. Perhaps if you were going to normal college, it would be easy for you to keep some semblance of your normalcy. But that is not the life you have chosen. You have decided for a more difficult route, one which entails a great lack of many things, including your family. You will not have a phone. You will not be allowed the luxury of your favorite belongings, of your stuffed lion or monkey. Anyone who wishes to contact you must do so through letters and while there is a beautiful simplicity and intimacy to this act, it is also tedious. Not to mention, you will be speaking a different language for four, eight, twelve years. Perhaps the rest of your life. Set aside, separate, joining the great American War Machine. Your parents do not understand. Your old friends do not understand, but there you are, spreading your wings.
As a little girl you always dreamed of moving east. 1,697 miles later your dream will be realized and you will be so terribly alone, in such a new place. You did not think you would miss much of anything from the small town you were raised; you thought you were grown, independent. Two days from departure and you have come to realize no leaving is without sadness.
You have left before, to adventure, to taste new tastes. But always to come back for long stretches of time; each absence had a foreseeable end. This one does not. This one is long and hard, and there will be months between each visit. Your parents understand. Your parents see this. And already they have begun to choke on tears despite the hours and days which remain with your presence strong, and vibrant. You begin to realize you will miss them fiercely. It was only this summer you learned to accept them as they come; to embrace their flaws, their shortcomings. For years you have slowly begun to acknowledge they are only people, as are you, not the giants that all children believe their parents to be, beyond reckoning. You have begun to disdain them in your vain adolescence, but it was a mistake to do so. Time is too short for hatred, for cruelty. You will leave with red hands regardless, and a stomach full of churning.
Because this is the place you have been for nineteen years. You have known the street names; the people. The cashier at the quick-market knows your name and asks about school when you go in to buy sour candy and a liter of water. He was there when you were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, older. He was there when you would come in after track practice and buy chocolate milk. The familiarity aches. It is a town full of people who ask about your family.
You have left before, for two years, but lived only an hour and a half away and returned on weekends to do your laundry. You have smoked cigars on mountaintops overlooking your small village and you have had sex in front of a park at twelve-o'clock. You have run down steep hills in summer sandals in the dark, laughing so hard your ribs ached, never-fearful of stumbling. You have cried outside one of the three restaurants in town and have felt yourself betrayed at the fairgrounds. You sister has lived next door for six years, a walk away, and it has always been easy for you to visit her, to get a glass of fruit-filled water or a snack with nutella. You have spent years running on the streets near your home, and in the trail of the woods. You know the bends by the stream and the sound of the stars at night.
You have spent years wanting to escape. You have spent years erecting a vision of your future; but one vision must take place of the last and suddenly you have come to realize there is so much to be lost here, to be missed, like the names of your neighbor's horses and the baleful baying of the dogs next-door. Do not even think of your own dog's eyes, as she looks at you so lovingly, because how many more times will you see them before she grows old and is gone?
There is a beautiful simplicity in knowing where the milk goes in the fridge, or how the cabinets are organized, in the blue of the lava lamp above your bed, in the fold of your favorite blanket. You have been sleeping in the same-colored sheets for five years and you have a wall of books you have yet to read. But they will wait for the two weeks of Christmas when you are home, won't they?
That's the thing, that's the rub. You aren't certain if the rest of the things will wait. Your niece and nephews are to grow much older. Your dog is to grow sad in your absence, as no one will take her on walks or pet her until their hands are tired. Your parents won't go out to eat as often; they won't come into your bedroom, excited, to tell you of some new and ridiculous idea. In your father's case, who is he to go to sentimentally at night? Who is to stay and turn off his television, when he has drank too much whiskey and fallen asleep at nine p.m.? No one will dust your room and they will certainly organize your closet wrong, if they touch it.
There is something terribly sad in all of this, this growing up, and no one who leaves returns quite the same. Perhaps if you were going to normal college, it would be easy for you to keep some semblance of your normalcy. But that is not the life you have chosen. You have decided for a more difficult route, one which entails a great lack of many things, including your family. You will not have a phone. You will not be allowed the luxury of your favorite belongings, of your stuffed lion or monkey. Anyone who wishes to contact you must do so through letters and while there is a beautiful simplicity and intimacy to this act, it is also tedious. Not to mention, you will be speaking a different language for four, eight, twelve years. Perhaps the rest of your life. Set aside, separate, joining the great American War Machine. Your parents do not understand. Your old friends do not understand, but there you are, spreading your wings.
As a little girl you always dreamed of moving east. 1,697 miles later your dream will be realized and you will be so terribly alone, in such a new place. You did not think you would miss much of anything from the small town you were raised; you thought you were grown, independent. Two days from departure and you have come to realize no leaving is without sadness.