It’s always easier to be the one who leaves, isn’t it?
I’m often the person who is leaving. Most frequently, I leave my parents’ house (and my parents) to drive back to Sarasota, back to my life here. When I visit my family in Pennsylvania, I’m the one who comes and goes–they stay. And because my apartment is so small (and, all right, because it’s also sometimes very messy), I usually hang out at my friends’ houses–which means I leave there, too. And you know what? I never think twice about it. It rarely feels unnatural. I guess that’s the plus side of being the leaver–you’re the one who is moving on.
But this weekend, two of my favorite people both left me in Sarasota. And, oh, doesn’t that sound dramatic? I should clarify that it was neither dramatic nor did they leave me, you know, forever: one is going to South Africa for a three-week vacation (hi, my name is Jealous, not in the least because it’s winter in the southern hemisphere and a face-melting 95 degrees here–are you tired of playing that tiny violin for me yet?); the other lives in north Florida and is simply going home before we reconnect next weekend. But still, for someone who is usually the leaver–or at least thinks she is–the other side of the coin is strange. I felt melancholy for the first part of the morning; there’s a little hollowness inside me.
It’ll pass. It always does. By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be caught up in the rhythm of the week: My fingers tapping against computer keys, responding to emails in the morning; my car wheels rolling over asphalt on the way to the various places I go throughout the day; a bowl of popcorn near me on the coffee table as I talk on the phone to my other wonderful friends who live in town; my arms and legs starfish-ed across my bed at night because I’ll be the only one in it again. Life goes on and we adjust. We just do.
I still think it’s always easier being the one who leaves, though.