Fireworks (Or, See You Soon Is Still Goodbye)

The TVs have come off their brackets, the bare walls have produced an eerie echo throughout the house, boxes are piled up everywhere, and, not surprisingly, I can’t catch my breath.

It’s been difficult to be overly sentimental about this move when there’s so been much to do and not nearly enough time to do any of it, including filling a prescription for Riley who rather inconveniently has strep throat, because, you know, kids.

On a walk with Gertie yesterday morning, it hit me. We’re leaving. We’re saying goodbye, or goodbye for now, or see you soon to our friends, family, neighbors, babysitters, doctors, occupational therapists, hair stylists, pedicurists, teachers, the cashiers at Publix who still card me occasionally (thank you very much), the pharmacists who don’t even have to ask what flavor we want for our amoxicillin (bubble gum, thank you very much), the awkwardly talkative balloon artist who works Wednesday nights at our neighborhood bar & grille, Sunday night swims…

…and the little block (deep breath).

A few weeks ago, we celebrated a close friend’s son’s sixth birthday, and the evening ended with backyard fireworks. Every boom that illuminated the dark sky with fleeting pops of colorful light filled me with the bittersweet sensation that with every new beginning comes an end, and with every new end comes another beginning. And that every “goodbye for now” is still a goodbye. And that every “see you soon” is still a goodbye…for now.

The movers arrive early tomorrow morning to start packing, which means there’s one last box to prepare.

Goodbye for now, er, I mean, see you soon.

p.s. No children were harmed (or shipped to New Jersey) in the making of this blog post. Pinky swear.