The Exodus Days
Article Preface:
This content can be slightly sad.
Exodus Days
Little did I know that by the end of this intermediate month that I would no longer be intact. Throughout these 31 days, I suffered the departure of several people from my current city of residence. These people have finished whatever it was that they needed to do in this intermediate city, and are relocating to various corners of the Earth: Ireland, Costa Rica, Switzerland, Alabama, Missouri, Maryland. While my relationships with these people range from treasured to mere acquaintanceship, the magnitude of loss within such a short period of time has shaken me so. I recently spoke with two of my friends about these feelings, and I jocularly characterized this period as the "Exodus Days.”
I am not jealous about these people’s exodus from this town; I found myself happy and excited for them. But I often walk away from another departing hug wondering if I feel this optimism for them vicariously: Is it because I myself wish to escape this place, and through them I can imagine a part of me being liberated? Whatever the case may be, I am left no longer intact; I am in pieces.
I struggle to reappraise my circumstances as an opportunity, though I frequently appeal to this optimistic perspective: be happy with what you have. For the most part, I am, usually when the sun is blazing gloriously in the cloudless skies. But I am often left staring at the melting sunset and wondering why my feet are still planted upon this vacant sidewalk. And I wonder how the night sky of my departed friends differs from the one that I now stare at.
On top of these final departures have been a series of temporary departures. Though not as damningly ultimate, with returns promised within a few weeks or so, these miniature goodbyes have compounded the weight upon my chest. The town is emptying out. My neighborhood sits quietly. The parking lots are empty. And as the Summer marinates, there is the anticipation of final goodbyes, those that did not occur during this period of rapid migration, but those that will—in two weeks, in a month, at the end of the Summer, and at the end of Fall. It’s falling in slow-motion, letting the inevitabilities slash into me like glass. And to think that I will be engulfed by these feelings once more at those later times… I fear that this damage might be permanent.
Today, I said goodbye to a neighbor who was moving out. I hardly knew the guy—perhaps I had spoken to him about five times over a course of two-and-a-half years. But that was enough to fracture me this sunny morning on my walk to the department. In the middle of the twisting road up the hill, I turned around to gaze at my small neighborhood hiding among the luscious grass and shading trees. It was still—or it would be soon. A ghost town. Farewell to Shady Glade.
Yesterday, I said goodbye to another neighbor—I spoke to him zero times over the same course of time, but we had seen each other infrequently and waved. I both officially met him (got his name) and said goodbye in the span of five minutes. To help his move-out go more smoothly, I offered to take a portion of his interesting rock collection. But yesterday was most significant in that I helped my dear friend and colleague of five years move out of his apartment in a nearby building, and also said goodbye to another dear friend of mine. We played one last Football game that evening—Football has been a tradition for this group for many years now—before we conducted our departures. “Safe travels to Missouri,” I said to one. With the other, we hopped on over to a fast-food joint to salvage at least one more hour together before the full moon turned its wide eye onto us in the East and the tug of fatigue set in. “Take care of yourself,” I said. “It was fun.” I’ll miss you, which I should have said but did not. “We’ll come visit you soon!” one of my other friends said. We all laughed. Maryland isn’t that far away, I supposed.
And, as a final layer, I suffered heartbreak, the loss of what I thought was a magical possibility.
For many years here, I have experienced these departures; people come, and people go, and my canoe stayed afloat in this ebb and flow. I also experienced rejections and disappearances, which I did not brood upon to a great extent. Despite these perturbations, the average backdrop remained the same: the same, good ol’ friends, the same neighbors, the same gym-goers, the same grocery store staff. But it is now in these Exodus Days that many of the columns that once supported my scaffolding have been crippled. I may not be able to stand elevated much longer.
That my business here has not yet concluded means that I cannot detach myself from this town. Oh, but that many of my strings have now been cut and the promise of many more to follow, I wonder more than ever about simply cutting them all. I yearn for the plains, for the mountains, for the dusty desert and rocky ranges, and to meld with the starry sunset overlooking these great spaces.
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