There is a parlor game where you decide whether you would rather be hit by a car and die suddenly, or at the end of a long illness. I used to say that I would choose the illness. I had Pollyanna-like visions of me wrapped in blankets, receiving visitors and crying delicately at all of the sweet things they have to say. I’ve changed my mind. I am no good at good bye. I do not excel at letting go. No matter how well rehearsed my goodbye, I always feel as though it is not enough.
As uncomfortable as the teary goodbye tends to be, it doesn’t compare to then running into your loved ones at the grocery store, at a party, walking in the park. It has all of the distasteful markings of making an impassioned speech after a dinner party, only to find you’ve left your sweater and returning, hangdog, to stutter less eloquent adieus while the hosts load the dishwasher and sweep up crumbs.
The goodbye themselves are no less difficult. The only difference between the casual “talk to you soon” or “see you later” and the formal “goodbye” is the hope. I know I will see you again, and so I do not need tears. Do not demean our relationship by behaving as though our parting is forever. As you’ve reminded me, we’ve been through harder than this. Don’t pretend you believe your letters will be abandoned with bills and dental reminders. Don’t act as if, after the first few, well-intentioned letters you will eventually forget to write me; sit down pen in hand and remember all of the more important things you have to do.
Goodbyes are not my forte. Emotions are hardly comfortable for me to sit with. I will see you soon Denver. I will miss you, but it will seem these years passed like days when I’m sitting with you again.
