The good-bye scene at the airport had as much drama as the kind of chick flick I would pay good money to see whenever I needed a good cry, except I was not watching the life of a fictional character; I was living my own. It was the summer of 1985 and I was leaving Denver.
It had only been two summers earlier when I would travel west in a car driven by a woman I did not know, along with her daughter, Ardith, who had taken a class with my friend. They had agreed to allow me to take up space in the back seat for the 24-hour drive straight-through to Colorado from Michigan State University in East Lansing. Since the remainder of my friends finished school by our commencement date in June, I would live out my final quarter in a graduate dorm populated by international students while earning the one credit I needed to graduate. Though I had eaten dinner regularly with some of the same students, I was surprised when not one but three guys showed up for my send-off: Ron from Rhode Island whose weight fluctuated in accordance with his eating disorder; Dan from Chicago whom my mother approved of rendering him completely undesirable; and Bill from somewhere in the midwest who had no business showing up at all since he had never shown interest, though the sadness of his demeanor was evident that day. Giving each guy a hug and absolutely no promises, I headed out on what I told my parents would be a two-week vacation.
Two years later, I would accept the graduate assistantship offered by Marshall University in West Virginia, which would waive the cost of tuition--a handy benefit for someone with no money--and give me back my comfortable status as student. I would remain a Colorado resident the whole time I was gone, returning for spring break, a summer internship at a magazine, and what turned into emotional entanglement with a man who worked with me in a restaurant at the Brown Palace Hotel--the man who was keeping me from getting on the plane.
As the line ended with me, the last passenger yet to board, the flight attendant gently nudged me forward, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to walk with my Smith-Corona typewriter; my most prized possession. Naturally room had to be made for the typewriter in an overhead compartment which meant a great deal of rearranging and unkind looks I was blithely unaware of while I stood sobbing, catching the eye of a professionally dressed man who looked away suddenly, no doubt hoping I would not be seated next to him.
Our initial conversation went something like this:
Me: (sobbing loudly)
Man: Um. Excuse me . . . miss?
Me: (continuing to sob)
Man: Ah . . . they are now serving drinks.
Me: (uncontrollable crying)
Man: Drinks. You know, alcohol? You . . . (measuring each word patiently) could . . . have a drink.
Me: (quieter sobbing) A drink?
Though I found my way back to Denver after graduate school, the day would come when I had to leave, again. This time when I got on a plane, about seven years later, I would be carrying a baby, instead of a typewriter, feeling somewhat numb from all of the prerequisite tearful good-byes in the days leading to our departure.
A woman we knew from church stopped by our home as we were putting our lives into boxes I would label and add to my numbered list. It hurt to look into the face of this friend as we had shared our lives with each other, and I would even go as far as to tell her to please not look at me, as I had to keep my emotional resolve and go on with my methodical work. I knew she understood--that unspoken promise of friendship neither of us could come to terms with, as the boxes kept demanding my attention; efficiently packing a little more of myself into each one as the sound of the tape dispenser signaled another box was sealed shut.
Unpacking the boxes, I would discover what had made the trip intact, and what had not.
Furniture can be repaired; glassware replaced.
Broken hearts are eventually mended; friendships endure.
Good-bye is too permanent. I prefer the French farewell--au revoir--until we meet again.
It had only been two summers earlier when I would travel west in a car driven by a woman I did not know, along with her daughter, Ardith, who had taken a class with my friend. They had agreed to allow me to take up space in the back seat for the 24-hour drive straight-through to Colorado from Michigan State University in East Lansing. Since the remainder of my friends finished school by our commencement date in June, I would live out my final quarter in a graduate dorm populated by international students while earning the one credit I needed to graduate. Though I had eaten dinner regularly with some of the same students, I was surprised when not one but three guys showed up for my send-off: Ron from Rhode Island whose weight fluctuated in accordance with his eating disorder; Dan from Chicago whom my mother approved of rendering him completely undesirable; and Bill from somewhere in the midwest who had no business showing up at all since he had never shown interest, though the sadness of his demeanor was evident that day. Giving each guy a hug and absolutely no promises, I headed out on what I told my parents would be a two-week vacation.
Two years later, I would accept the graduate assistantship offered by Marshall University in West Virginia, which would waive the cost of tuition--a handy benefit for someone with no money--and give me back my comfortable status as student. I would remain a Colorado resident the whole time I was gone, returning for spring break, a summer internship at a magazine, and what turned into emotional entanglement with a man who worked with me in a restaurant at the Brown Palace Hotel--the man who was keeping me from getting on the plane.
As the line ended with me, the last passenger yet to board, the flight attendant gently nudged me forward, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to walk with my Smith-Corona typewriter; my most prized possession. Naturally room had to be made for the typewriter in an overhead compartment which meant a great deal of rearranging and unkind looks I was blithely unaware of while I stood sobbing, catching the eye of a professionally dressed man who looked away suddenly, no doubt hoping I would not be seated next to him.
Our initial conversation went something like this:
Me: (sobbing loudly)
Man: Um. Excuse me . . . miss?
Me: (continuing to sob)
Man: Ah . . . they are now serving drinks.
Me: (uncontrollable crying)
Man: Drinks. You know, alcohol? You . . . (measuring each word patiently) could . . . have a drink.
Me: (quieter sobbing) A drink?
Though I found my way back to Denver after graduate school, the day would come when I had to leave, again. This time when I got on a plane, about seven years later, I would be carrying a baby, instead of a typewriter, feeling somewhat numb from all of the prerequisite tearful good-byes in the days leading to our departure.
A woman we knew from church stopped by our home as we were putting our lives into boxes I would label and add to my numbered list. It hurt to look into the face of this friend as we had shared our lives with each other, and I would even go as far as to tell her to please not look at me, as I had to keep my emotional resolve and go on with my methodical work. I knew she understood--that unspoken promise of friendship neither of us could come to terms with, as the boxes kept demanding my attention; efficiently packing a little more of myself into each one as the sound of the tape dispenser signaled another box was sealed shut.
Unpacking the boxes, I would discover what had made the trip intact, and what had not.
Furniture can be repaired; glassware replaced.
Broken hearts are eventually mended; friendships endure.
Good-bye is too permanent. I prefer the French farewell--au revoir--until we meet again.
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