The Art of Goodbye
The art of goodbye
I'm sitting in my empty room and it is the cleanest I have ever seen it. Only two weeks ago my floor was littered with clothes, desk littered with paper. I still inhabited this room.
There is a hole in the ceiling. Scratches on the floor. Command strips still glued to thin paint. These stained walls are witnesses to my coming of age story. Evidence that I exist beyond my memory, proof that I am not fickle.
I realize that a house echoes when there is no furniture. That memories reverberate when there are no people left to absorb them. And now, I can see my mother tenderly teaching me how to make tea. Or, doing my friends makeup for homecoming. Or, laughter over a quiet dinner. Or, any moment when life becomes worth living.
When life was not worth living. When my room cradled me within its four arms and became a safe haven for recovery. My room, a jail, a reason to stay, medicine for a sick brain.
I wonder what Will Smith felt when he left his Bel-Air mansion. I wonder what things I should be feeling. I wonder if I will grow to regret not having a movie goodbye. A single tear. A last look.
And, I feel like I should miss it already. I feel like I should savor every last moment. But
How can I when I was never taught this scale of readiness. I am not well versed in the art of goodbye.
Everytime we move, I consider our previous house “home”. Everytime we move, those periods of time shrink more and more. I am afraid that one day this will no longer be home, just some walls and windows and floors and doors that have been scrubbed clean of any of our remains. That memories of people I love will be trapped there forever.
Oh, how I crave to still live among them.