Hope with a Pinch of Salt

Seven letters. Two syllables. Good-Bye. The word I hate most. I’m the one who hangs around just a moment too long because I don’t want to say good-bye. The one who holds on far too long and is shocked when they move on without me. My favorite part of “Our Town” is when Emily bids good-bye to the beautiful simplicities in her life. Now it’s my turn to say good-bye to my home and the life I’ve had for almost 21 years. I hate being sentimental. I’ve tried to pretend it’s not happening. But it is. And so I have to say good-bye. Good-Bye to the room I painted yellow two years ago, and finally decorated perfectly with long strands of Christmas lights, sticks that I collected, old coke bottles and artwork in blues and greens. I bought hooks for my ukuleles that I’ll never hang. My apartment is unfurnished, so I won’t have a place to come home to. Good-Bye to the doves lining up on the power lines outside my window to coo me to wake in the morning. Good-Bye to the library that was my second home, my second classroom. I read all of the books on Ellis Island, the Civil War and the Orphan trains. The librarians are the only people who have known me from birth until now. They can say my name, and know that I check out huge piles of books and get enough fines that the receipt is long enough to make a scarf. “Chavala, you’re weird, but I like it,” they tell me. Good-Bye to my hideaway under the bridge that is submerged in Springtime with snow melt, but provides a perfect seat under the shade of concrete. I can watch cars pass, but I am surrounded by the quiet buzz of insects and the gurgling of a creek.

Good-Bye to the bike paths I walked every day for years. And each new addition. “The little circle.” “The medium circle.” “The big circle.” And the “Dad why do you walk so far? Circle.” To the time I had walking with Dad around the track with no one interrupting. Good-Bye to biking to the playground to watch fireworks with Mom as they are launched all around us. Good-Bye to crawling on the ground to watch Dad fix my car. To holding fishing line while he works on his chainsaw. To mowing with him. To proudly backing up my car. To wiping my oily fingers on a rag that smells like my childhood. Good-Bye to watching the Bachelorette with Mom and reading her Tweets and explaining what a meme is...again. To coming home and venting to her then laying my head on her lap. Good-Bye to sitting in the dark basement alone with my TV, Oreos, Arnold Palmer and the comfiest chair in the house. Good-Bye to hanging wet clothes on the pipes and trying to bend under them on the way to the freezer. Good-Bye to stealing Dad’s charger and getting a text at work, “Where is my charger?” Good-Bye to “Can you scan something for us?” “Can I close out of your page?” “What’s the password? We can’t find it.” Good-Bye to four people in the bathroom on Sunday morning and Dad yelling “I’ll be in the car!” Good-Bye to movie nights where we suffered through, “But it looked so good” and made them watch our movies and hid the clicker so we couldn’t fast forward. Good-Bye to 102.9 playing old Christian songs on the radio while the water heats up on the stove for Dad’s third coffee of the day. To the phone ringing at 3:50PM to tell me Dad is on his way home. Good-Bye to the steady clockwork of school buses rumbling past the house every fall. And to watching the new batch of youngsters starting their first day of school. Good-Bye to Spring Grove Park and skipping across stones, wading with the waterbugs, balancing on the tree that sinks further every year. Good-Bye to Tootsie rolls at the township building. To walking across faded linoleum and sitting in a burnt orange chair to vote. To watching Dad on the Planning Commission, the proud daughter of a public servant. Good-Bye to biking through the four-way stop and spying on the ice cream shop. Streetlights flickering. To circling around the library mailbox late at night. Good-Bye to walking through the skeletons of a new subdivision and jumping over piles of mud. “Just jump! I did it,” Seth yelled to me. Good-Bye worn cupboard doors. Pink canisters. Overstuffed hooks. Painting over the table. The broken spindle where your feet fit through. Good-Bye to curling up on the couch on a rainy day, the blinds pulled tight, eating nut mix and laughing at a movie with all four of us. Good-Bye to scrubbing cracked white grout in the bathroom. And sweeping the deck. And weeding the fence line. Good-Bye to sitting in the backyard with a stack of books, and my lunch on an impromptu picnic. Good-Bye to watching nature shows on weekend mornings, trying to guess whether everyone was wearing pajamas or work clothes. To the smell of bacon and eggs, and Dad calling through the grate, “Can you come make toast?” Good-Bye to watching NASCAR, golf, football, baseball, basketball every Sunday afternoon. To trying to convince Mom and Dad to try a new tv show that doesn’t involve ranches or heavy equipment or mining. Good-Bye to helping split wood and stack it into the garage. To raking leaves and dumping them at the pit. And scrambling off over the logs to find fossils. Good-Bye to Dad getting up at 4:30 in the morning and the little lamp in the corner that signals his presence. Good-Bye to Mom making chili or granola. And to eating it straight out of the pan.

Good-Byes are a part of life as the tides are to the sea. I’ve lived in fear of them for so long. Afraid of those seven letters. But perhaps the best way to honor that which is lost or left behind is to revel in its beauty. To remember each moment of joy and sorrow, and to hold them inside. And then let them go, to twist new strands into the tapestry of my history, of who I am. Because Good-Byes are also Hellos. Hello to building a new life. To creating new beauty and new memories and new meaning. And to learning to lean on the kindness of others. As I prayed this Sabbath from the T’fila, “We pray that we may live not by our fears but by our hopes.” Chanting over and over, “Modim anachnu lach.” We gratefully acknowledge.