I leave tomorrow. As in, in 24.5 hours I will be on a plane. Holyshit.
Yesterday I had a funny moment. I'd packed all my clothes into my duffels, but the family was going to a nice-ish dinner so I was trying on the dresses that remained to see if any would work. I put on what is actually my favorite dress, but is also that mix between casual and formal that makes it impossible to wear. Anyway, I put it on and I looked in the mirror and literally my first thought was if I get married next summer I'm wearing this. Which is ridiculously absurd. I'm not ready to get married and I don't want to get married and I don't have anyone I'd want to marry and I don't feel even a little bit grown up enough to get married, etc etc. The whole thing was stupid. But it totally threw me for a loop that that was my first thought. And now it makes me laugh.
This week I had one good cry. Which is to be expected, I think. One good cry is a good thing, every once in a while. It was after I'd said all my goodbyes. I'd been cleaning/packing all night and I was overwhelmed with everything that needed to be done, overwhelmed by the goodbyes I'd been saying all week, overwhelmed by the lack of control I was feeling, overwhelmed by not knowing what the next week, month, year holds. So I got in the shower and cried. And then I got out and curled up, in the most literal sense of the phrase. I'd been cleaning out things, and among the piles on my bed was this yellow packet about and of poetry that I'd gotten in creative writing and saved, because it's lovely. In it was this poem by Anne Sexton that made me feel a little better. (And now I'm feeling good and ready to go again).
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.