Saying Goodbye

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

My good neighbor moved this week. She had lived in her family home for years. She inherited it  from her parents, who were pillars of our little town. Members of her family had lived in that house for decades. They planted grapevines and an apple tree and made the yard beautiful. My neighbor’s friend said that she remembered visiting in the summertime from the Bay Area many years ago, and how my neighbor’s father would make ice cream outside with their old-fashioned ice cream maker, cranking the handle, patiently waiting for the ice cream to form.

I was lucky enough to see my neighbor as she pulled out of her driveway for the last time. We had said our goodbyes in the morning, but she was still there, late in the afternoon, finishing up last minute packing and cleaning. She took time to wax the kitchen floor and scrub the refrigerator, which was staying for the new owners. I had wandered outside to grab my purse and lunch bag from the car, just as she was driving away. There were tears, from both of us.

She has a place to move to and a partner who loves her, who stayed by her side through the entire process. Her sweet parents failed to downsize their cherished belongings before they passed away; the house’s good-sized basement was full of memorabilia. It’s a job that nobody ever wants, culling the belongings of the people we love who pass before us. And it was a job that she hadn’t had to do, because the house had so much storage—until the end, when the basement had to be emptied. She tried to save the things that were most precious to her, but it was difficult to make decisions about every treasured item and impossible to move it all. She had to let a lot go.

The moving process lasted for days, and it took a village. I watched from my kitchen window as my neighbor’s friends arrived. They sorted and labeled and cleaned and loaded boxes. One of her oldest, dearest friends arrived and stayed for 10 days (or was it 11?), basically to the end. I don’t think my neighbor would have made it through without her. There was a parade of helpers, friends and neighbors, that walked with her and loved her through the process of saying goodbye to her home, her family’s home, a place that she loved so much.

It was an honor to see her and hug her as she drove away for the last time.

It made me think about all the “lasts” and “firsts” that come into our lives.

There was a last cribbage game that I had with my Dad, but who knew it at the time? There was a last conversation that I had with my Mom, before she got sick and lost the ability to speak. The last time I could heft my son up on my hip and carry him around the house. The last time I ran without my knee hurting. When did my knee start hurting? Will it stop hurting someday, or are my running days over?

So many lasts.

Tonight? I think there is a cribbage game with my son in the forecast, maybe right after I post this. We still have a few weeks before school starts. I’m not ready for there to be a last cribbage game of the summer, not yet anyway. So we will play, and I will try to stay in the moment, to be here and not anywhere else. All we really have, the mystics and wise ones say, is the present moment. All we have is now.