This weekend was like any other, except for the fact that it was my last weekend living in Washington state.
I sat at my desk in the Seattle office and wondered if people would forget about me. I walked through the streets of Seattle with a close friend and had dinner in the beautiful spring weather on a sloping hill while we talked about how much we've changed over the course of this 'almost' decade. On a patio at a wine bar, wrapped snugly in a blanket, tears welled in my eyes as we told one another how much we meant to each other, and as I stopped in at another home I made promises for summer camping trips and an Alaskan adventure, and when I drove away I wondered how long it would be before I stepped foot in their home again.
I ate at my favorite local resurant for the last time, I ran errands in a city that feels so very familiar two years later, and I wondered how long it would be before I could stop using GPS to find the post office once we move to Anchorage. I met up with a friend and walked along a quiet trail and I realized I would probably never walk this road again. A hug good-bye and a promise to call often, a standing offer to camp out in our guest room. The door closes, tears in my eyes, finding myself sitting on my bed, alone.
Dinner with Adam's parents, the realization that visits like these, on a whim for a long weekend will no longer be possible. Tears in his mother's eyes when we talk about next summer, instead of next month. Trying to articulate how much living in Washington has meant to me and being unable to finish my sentence for fear I'd ruin the nice evening with my sadness. Being given an Alaskan motto, "Put on a hat, and buck up!"
Standing in my yard emptying pots that I'd hoped would contain another summers worth of flowers, suddenly empty. Tossing houseplant after houseplant in the garbage, knowing they wont be allowed to come with me. Packing a small bag of clothes, knowing I wont see my things after Tuesday for three whole weeks. Counting down. Closer, closer, closer.
Tonight we'll eat dinner on my dinning room table, one of the last real meals we'll eat on it before it is boxed up and ships north. I still own this house, but I'll never live here again. I'll never work in my garden again, I'll never wake up in this bedroom, we'll never sit in this dinning room ever again. In 7 days it will be someone else's home, helping someone else make memories.
In 7 days I will put my things, my dogs, and my fish in the car, we'll close the garage one last time and drive away.
Away from Olympia, from our first home, from the place where Adam and I became a team instead of simply a couple, from the place where I rebuilt my self esteem, the place where I learned to be happy once again. We'll drive past Seattle, and then soon into Canada, and I don't know if I'll ever come back here. I'll visit, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to call this home once again.
The place where I've lived since I was 18.
The place where I became an adult.
Soon I leave for my next adventure.
But this weekend I can't seem to shake the tears.
I'm so excited for this adventure, I really am, but ugg, how I hate good-byes.