Sam got on a plane and left for Vancouver yesterday. Tonight I will drive down to upstate New York. For eight months we are leaving this apartment behind, the first apartment in Montreal that has truly felt like Home.
And this is a good thing – a great thing, honestly. This is what we have been waiting for. The only way to go is up. Clear skies ahead. We had to fight through this semester to reach this point where, for the first time in a long time, there is nothing in the foreseeable future that we are not really excited about. And we don’t even have that much time to miss each other – we’ll be working together come June.
And yet, as Annika and I stood on the sidewalk and waved as Sam’s cab took her away, the conversation drifted towards the future, towards this time next year when these temporary sojourns apart will become permanent. We won’t always have Montreal. The three of us are not going to live together forever.
And of course, of course we have always known this, but the days stretch long through those cold winter months and it can start to feel like time, too, has frozen over and maybe, well, maybe everything will be like this forever. It becomes hard to remember a time when my breakfasts weren’t spent reading and chatting with Sam and my nights weren’t filled with ab-inducing laughter and very long, serious discussions about what to have for dinner. And how did I study alone all those years? How did I ever get work done anywhere but at our dining room table with my roommates sitting across from me, pulling stupid faces and keeping the monotony and stress at bay. How is it that they can do that without saying a single word?
They feel connected to me in a very real and powerful way. They are embedded in my life, thoroughly. It is strange to contemplate life beyond them.
It seems as though one of the most important lessons of growing up is learning to accept that at least two things are always true. I want to leave. I want to stay.
But only one is possible.