Again, Another Variaton of

We sat in the playhouse in the woods today on a bench made of a 2x4 on 4 bricks, holding hands.  She sniffled and cried a lot, and said things that were heartbreaking and dramatic and funny but I didn't laugh because they were heartbreaking.  I looked at the woods and the cobwebs and the girls' names written in cobwebs.  I looked at the house and yard below that have been called mine for 4 years. I remembered sometimes feeling satisfied with that and sometimes not. I remembered all of the promise of this playhouse and wondered if it lived up to it, and yet did not care whether or not it did.  I remembered delivering picnic lunches here. I remembered what it is like to sit there sheltered from wind and looking out on snow. I remembered wondering if my grandchildren would visit me and play in it someday. I wondered how much my daughters will miss it.

We walked to some neighbors' houses to say good-bye, and I thought how strange it is to simultaneously know someone and really not know them. I thought about the weirdness of our disconnected suburban lifestyle yet somehow there is something (or more accurately, somebodies)  here to disconnect from. I thought about how glad I will be to leave this suburban arrangement, and yet know that I have adapted and will find myself missing that garage door with the automatic opener (and other things).  

I tucked my daughter into her bed in her bright pink room for the last time, and she cried herself to sleep.

We talked on the phone when she arrived with her dad, my other daughter and I.  She laughed and was touched when I told her that her little sister missed her already and said she just won't know what to do when Molly goes to college. Molly wandered around the house telling me about everything, chattering about her plans for the next day, and I caught the excitement of the adventure beginning, chomping at the bit to be there too.

I have been at this crossroads before. Not that long ago I was writing about getting used to Central New York, and now I am, once again, spending a last night in a place I have called home. I have said good-bye to places that have carved their impressions on my heart, and to dear friends. The part of moving that is the hardest is when those dear people no longer are part of my everyday life because physical distance is a hard barrier to overcome. Having been here before, I am too aware that after the excitement of the new-to-me-house and exploring my new area: rock-bottom and tunnels without visible light at the end.

There is a longing to hold on, and a longing to jump. But life's moments are like water; unable to be caught in your bare hands. You savor the feel, let it run over you, and it's gone.  It is something I am learning, to enjoy and feel all of those things  - people, places, events - for what they are when they are with me.

Earlier today I sat looking out on Skaneateles Lake and I wanted so badly to jump in and feel the cold, clear, clean water swallow me and knowing that I would have to hold onto the memory of that feeling for a long time, or maybe a lifetime.  The Fingerlakes are mesmerizing. There have been times when I have dove into Keuka Lake as deep as I dared, knowing that if I stayed under for too long I would sink 200 feet to the bottom.

I wonder if I will sleep well tonight. There is so much to do tomorrow. Will I get it all done? I have  never moved without Jeff accompanying me. He is not here with me this time and I have done much of this alone. I will drive away from this home without him by my side. I have learned to be stronger and more independent in this time in New York, more than I thought possible. It's a good thing and something to be careful of, again, like diving into Keuka Lake.  I explained to Anna today that she will get through this and she will be stronger for it. No, crying doesn't make you less brave. Making it to the other side is what shows up in the record books, not the crying. 

She said she does not want to get attached in our new place, because what if we just move again in 4 years. I told her its always worth it to get attached. It is worth the hurt. She asked if it was like having kids. And I smiled, and said yes, because how do you explain to an 8 year old that having children is the ultimate challenge in attachment lessons?

You never get unattached, you just have to learn how to live in various degrees of "without."