It's So Hard to Say Goodbye...

This morning, I got up at 5 a.m. I showered, put on my makeup, and got dressed in the dark, so that Wm could sleep til our usual wakeup time.

It felt like a normal day, except it was early, and I was going to say goodbye to my best friend.

About two and a half years ago, C and I sent the Kilipino, our other best friend, off to South America, to join the Peace Corps. It was the hardest thing I'd had to do with my friends, to see one of them get on a plane and know that definitively, our lives diverged at this point. We were here, she was there.

And it doesn't matter how supportive you feel and excited you are for that person--you still have that corner of your heart that feels sad. And it's for multiple reasons: one, you're not going along for the adventure; two, you know that things will not be the same. The rest of the reasons just sort of spiderweb out from that and are small but sting all the same--your friendship just doesn't have the same immediacy when you can't dial up the phone and talk about the latest. We'll have a twelve-hour time difference between us.

It doesn't even mean it's all bad; but no one can remain unchanged, and we're all moving forward at a different pace, or on a different path, with our life plans. A little reminder that we're all growing up.

Last spring, C told me that she was going to go to Thailand for a semester to teach. After the total shock wore off, I rallied into excitement mode. The rest of the year was spent in preparation; helping myself get used to the idea, starting to plan a trip to visit, and keeping her spirits up if ever they faltered.

But still, even though I've been in this place before, in an airport, crying, knowing this person will be chasing their dreams ... it was hard. it was hard to say goodbye, even if it's just a "pause." Even if it's just a couple of months -- and haven't I been talking about how fast time has been going lately? I had convinced myself that this goodbye would not be difficult. It would be joyous and I would say the right thing and feel just fine afterwards. But after waving at her one last time as she walked through security, I had a tough time reining in the tears. OK, I cried. A lot.

This is a friend who extends far past the term friend. When you've been close for more than twenty years, that person is your chosen family. We know nearly all the things about each other there is to know--for instance, when she said last night, "I never sleep the night before flying." I said "I know," and shot her a pointed look--indeed, we've shared that before our own trips together. We laughed then.

We grew up just three short blocks from each other; we began playing together as soon as our parents would let us cross the busy street by ourselves. We met each other halfway each time; indeed, people must have seen us walking the neighborhood daily. We rode bikes, our hair blowing out straight behind us, transitioning from little kids in terrycloth shorts to teenagers, from corduroys to flannel shirts and Doc Martens, braces and too-skinny bodies, secrets and rumors, drivers' licenses and boyfriends, dance clubs and library research, high school graduation and college graduation, plus all the challenges life tends to throw your way once in a while, just to see if you're still paying attention.

There have been a million transitions we've faced together, and always come out the other side. This challenge will be no different. But I'm here and she's there. She hasn't even touched down in Bangkok yet, but I already miss her. My little friend group has dispersed; they're there and Im here. Things will feel just a little emptier while she's gone.