Before I Go

I was still lying in bed pretending to be sound asleep when he was up putting his pants on, over in the corner by the foot of the bed.  His belt buckle clinked as I listened, imagining him pulling up his trousers, tucking in the legs of his boxer shorts, then searching for his shirt.  I heard his zipper swoosh up, listened as he buckled that belt, felt the bed sink when he sat on the edge to pull on his socks.

They were the sounds of leaving, I thought to myself.  The rattle of belt buckles and zippers, the sighing as he bent over to retrieve an undershirt, the jingle of keys as he headed out the door, and then finally, the ringing silence as the sound of the door closing lingered in the air for a moment.  I listened to the clunk of his work boots stomp down the front steps to his truck.

Then, an engine running, revving,  The sound, fading with distance as he drove away,  filled me with relief--and dread.

Passionate nights don't always end with sentimental mornings.  Sometimes the light of day seems to undo the candlelit ambience of romance.  It shines too bright a light on our flaws and reminds us that reality awaits just outside the window.  It lurks under the rug waiting for our feet to land upon it in the morning when we must come down.  There is no place for heady romance and lofty expectations when your feet are planted firmly on the ground.

After a while I learned to hate the sounds of leaving.  The dangling of keys, jiggle of belts, the scriiip of a zipper, they all gave me that dead in my gut because I never liked coming down.  I never enjoyed goodbyes.  I wanted to live with my head in the clouds,stomp around barefooted in the grass, and keep my eyes closed tight to anything I didn't want to see.

But just as romantic nights fade into brightly lit mornings, I transformed somewhere along the way.

Somewhere between watching a truck pull away with all of his belongings, to watching another one be escorted away in the back of police car, I learned to keep some of me to myself.  I learned to preserve what I could while still allowing myself the freedom to love.  I learned that sometimes, the leaving is mine to do, absent the sound of clinking buckles and pockets full of quarters, I learned to quietly fade away, I learned to make my own change.

My life has been a slideshow of people coming and going.  Some lingered for a while and then set out to find greener pastures, younger lovers, weaker victims to exploit.  Some were taken from this life far too soon, one by his own hand, and many others by nature's design it would seem,  I have always been.  I am my one and only constant, my one and only source of understanding who knows about every path I've traveled, every pain I've suffered and every heartbreak I've had to mend.  And yet, I scarcely know me at times.

My father is ill.  Nearly two years ago I held my mother's hand and smiled at her, told her I was happy and all was well with me.  I lied to her that day, but I gave her peace before she went.  I may soon have to say a final goodbye to the man I have looked up to all of my life.  I listened to him leave too, as a child.  I listened to his belt buckle jingle, heard him grunt as he put on his work boots, watched him walk out the door with a lunch plate and a Mason jar full of sweet tea.  He always returned, sometimes worse for the wear, with shavings of metal in his skin and stuck tot he soles of his boots.  I sat by him as he ate breakfast, too tired to converse, but never too hungry to pause before he took the first bite, just long enough to thank the Lord for all he was given.

Some people aren't meant to be permanent parts of our lives.  They sometimes step in, turn our worlds upside down, and then move on, leaving us to put everything back together again.  We sometimes do the same to others.  It is how life works, and how we are challenged to reach for whatever good there is left in the world for us to possess and share.

I look at my dad, his life so well-lived, and wonder if he has any regrets.  I wonder if there is something more he needs to do before he goes, even at a ripe old age when we assume all the saying and doing has been done.  I don't suppose we ever stop becoming more of who we are, even without trying, we are subject to the transformations of time and place, of people and experiences that tweak us so subtly that by the time we are ready to leave, we may scarcely recognize who we were twenty years ago

I read somewhere that there's something about walking through a doorway that makes you forget why you came into a different room.  I think sometimes, life is just that way; we close a door and leave it behind us, then stand absent mindedly in place, scratching our heads, trying to figure out why we are here.  It's not always so easy to find your purpose, even when it seems like you've been propelled through space and time, eventually landing with a whole life around you.  You find yourself in a  job you never saw yourself doing, with kids you never planned to have, and wounds you never imagined you'd have to nurse.

It's difficult to live a life with no regrets.  We often can't find peace with our choices, can't reconcile what we planned with what we ended up living.  For all the plans I made, my life would be so desolate had the unexpected not sent me off track.  From babies to careers, losses to inexplicable human connections, the serendipitous miracles have left me with a lap-full of joy I can't even begin to explain.  Sad goodbyes aside, fractured feelings be damned, because here I am with a life I never planned or expected, feeling full, loved, grateful.  

No, I have not arrived  at that pinnacle of living, where I know I have done all I came to do.  So far, I've come along for the ride, enjoyed the view, even tried my hand at the wheel a few times.  Maybe, eventually, before I go, I'll accomplish something good.  I sure hope that in all my fumbling around, I've managed to live a life worthy of all the goodness that has been bestowed upon me.  The love of family and friends, the blessing of knowing no need, the joy of a life lived with the freedom to be imperfect.