Yesterday morning, P and I woke up as early as we could to make the last half-day seem longer. I opened my eyes a few minutes before he did, and lay watching him sleep for a blissful, surreal few moments. We had breakfast at our usual hangout spot; a grilled veg omelette with rye toast and a cappuccino for me -- what I always have. I said a sad goodbye to our waiter friend, appropriately named Future, who'd been taking care of us at that coffee shop for ages, and who sometimes got the barista to put a personalised message in the froth of my cappuccinos (like, "Welcome Back, We Missed You" after I'd been away for a while, or "Good Morning, C and P" on one of our frequent brunch runs). Heart-breaking. But yesterday, there was no froth-text, which was appropriate... blank space to write my own story, I guess.
After some time-wasting vexation (all my fault, for a change!) at the bank to get my money out, and then -- as if to chase the despair that was creeping up on me -- a touching message on my phone from a friend to wish me well and to say she thought P and I were truly meant to be together, we came home. I'd finished all my packing the day before, and there were boxes all around waiting to be picked up and taken into storage at my folks' house, so it was like returning expectantly to my beloved home and finding it had already been vacated. Even my long-suffering basil plant had finally given up, perhaps in sympathy with my impending departure. Strange thing, to anthropomorphise my potplant. Indeed, it was a strange day.
P and I sat together threading cord through my final stack of 200 drawstring bags for P's menstrual-cup business, because it was a job that needed doing and also because it gave a much-needed sense of normality to my day. Without that, I would simply have had more opportunities for freaking out. Having said that, I took breaks from the cord-threading to cry and be held.
At 3pm, leaving my half-eaten Greek Salad lunch in the fridge, and with a churning belly and irresolute heart, I got into the car and we headed for the airport. We plodded through a long queue, punctuated with a frenzied instruction to P to get some baggage tags from the airport stationary shop, and all the while N and C were waiting nearby with their toddler son to see me off, and my Mum and Papa were anxiously twiddling their thumbs at the airport coffee shop. Checking in was slow and frustrating, and even though we arrived there three hours before my flight was due to leave, I ended up with so much less time for goodbyes than I had planned and hoped for. A lesson in making do with what we have...
N gave me a magnificent gyroscopic crystal, glistening with hope and happy sentiment, to hang in my new window and admire. We both cried, having tried hard to hold it in until then. After a rushed goodbye to my sweet friends, I chatted to my Mum and Papa for a few minutes, hugging and being grateful for their love and trust in me, trying to make amends for getting them to come all the way to the airport and yet being unable to sit down longer and relax with them over a last coffee as I had promised.
P and I then walked back into the main terminal together, where we found a (relatively) quiet spot near a huge window with a view of all these dormant aircraft. We sat cross-legged, facing each other, on the floor. His quiet eyes were shining with love and sadness, and it must have taken all the strength he could muster to encourage me, to stay excited for me, to talk me through my tears and vaccilation and remind me why I had chosen this. Then it was time to go. I walked through the boarding gate, and his handsome bearded face, his azure blue shirt, blurred among the luggage-laden crowd.
And then... I was in the sky.
From N's farewell card to me: "Remember that what you have now was once among the things you only hoped for." - Epicurus
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