This morning, I stood at the window of my bedroom-turned-office and watched for a while the ribbon of red sunrise visible between the houses. I contemplated small goodbyes.
On Saturday, we will begin house hunting. Our plan (which I think I’ve mentioned) is to find some reasonably-sized, single-story place suitable for growing old. I have no idea how long this will take. Vans down by the river seem to be selling for 25% above asking in 24 hours, so we could be looking for quite some time. But eventually, we will wish this house, with its rambling additions, uneven floors, and the porch Don painted the color of my wedding bouquet, goodbye.
Two years ago, that would have been unthinkable. Two years ago, I was so stupefied by the ridiculous, fairy-tale luck that had whisked me out of a life consumed by a job to which I was deeply unsuited but which I did with a kind of white-knuckled, teeth-gritted determination that made my head ache, to a cottage by the inland sea with a man who painted whole rooms like flowers — well. I thought we might live here forever.
Of course, I knew then, and know now, that nothing is forever. Life is a series of small goodbyes. Today at the gym, a mother had brought her son. He scampered up the the various pull-up bars, hanging first by his hands and then by his knees. He swung down, grabbed a basketball and twirled it on one finger, then crossed from one end of the building to the other in a series of wild, spinning leaps.
I thought, because I am in that kind of mood, about this boy at 40 or 50 or 60, balding with his arms crossed, watching another boy scramble across monkey bars at a playground and wondering, “Was that ever me? Did I do that?” Trying, and failing, to remember when it was, exactly, that he said goodbye to all that.
Every moment that we welcome is, simultaneously, a moment we let go. Each breath in and out a birth and a death, a carrying forward, yes, to what will be, but also an oar stroke speeding us away from what was and will never be again.
Meditation gurus of all persuasions urge us to live in the present, to be here now, and embrace what is, and I agree, for the most part.
But there is still some part of me that thinks — that I think perhaps knows — that we were given time and the sense of time, for a reason, that we are meant to feel, sometimes, the thrill of anticipation and also sometimes to sink into the sorrow of the small goodbye.
Outside my office window, the sun that rose this morning has set again. We have, each of us, one more day to remember and one fewer to live. I think it’s fitting now to take a moment to bid it farewell — as I do you. Thank you, everyone, for joining me on this fourth 500 Words Before Bedtime. Please accept this small goodbye.
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