Last day in Texas.
Well, that's not true. Leaving Austin tomorrow morning, and it'll take me a full day to cross this state, so, last day in Austin, I suppose.
It's raining. Heavy and loud. For months we had been told off and on that big storms were coming, and they never did. A light sprinkle. A tornado or two. But no real downpour.
Until today, anyway.
Of course.
The house is filled with boxes and I am filled with baggage. Elle and I have amicably decided that the best thing we can do is to go our separate ways. I'm not happy, she's not happy, and we are creeping up on the age where we need to start considering that a priority or abandon it entirely (and neither of us deserve that). It's the right thing to do, and as much as I can I am avoiding processing it until I get settled again. Until I have slightly less on my plate.
It comes in waves anyway. Petting our cat for one of the last times and I well up. Catching the wrong glance with Elle. Sorting out our stuff. I well up, I shove it down.
I look back on what we achieved in the last six or seven years. Individually and as a couple, and I am proud. We covered a lot of ground. Metaphorically and literally. We grew, and traveled, and we became far better versions of the people we were at the start of it all. I do not feel like I have wasted my time here, as I have felt with others in the past. The experiences I have had have been vital, and I am grateful for them and grateful that we are able to recognize the end calmly and logically and without anger. About as good an outcome as you could ask for, realistically.
I've longed to escape Texas for nearly two years and now I am a day away and I am grateful to be going home. I am grateful to see my loves again. I am grateful to have the opportunity for another cross country road trip (even if I am too broke to stop and enjoy any of it). But there is a deep melancholy, as you would expect.
Do you want the bookshelf or the DVD shelf?
You keep the bed. I'll find one online.
At least you'll have room to spread out now. And me too.
We're doing the right thing.
We're doing the right thing.
The cat and I have been close friends for a year and a half. I take her outside on a harness and leash and we sit in the sun watching the grass sway in the wind. We explore the neighbor's fence and we go check the mail. She sees me in the morning and purrs loudly and smears her face against my leg. She sleeps on my lap every time I sit down for as long as I let her. She has no way of knowing. I wish I could explain it to her.
But the alienation is almost over. The utter loneliness. For nearly five years I have isolated myself from family and friends, first in Florida, then Texas, then Vermont, then Texas again. I remember sitting in isolation for days in jail and the way I would imagine being out. I would imagine it so vividly that when I would open my eyes I would be surprised I was still sitting in a cell. And I remember walking out of there, into a freezing early March morning, alone and down the highway for miles, my feet throbbing and my skin chaffing and cracking and being more grateful and happy than I could ever remember being, because I was going home.
I wonder if, during the coming 2500 miles, I will feel the same. After years of imagining so vividly my life with people I love and who love me, of the mountains and lakes, of home, will I feel the same? Will it be as overwhelmingly beautiful as walking out of that cell had been? Or will it seem marred and small? Will the reality of failure and loss stain it all?
Well, column A, column B, I assume.
In the end, I know that Elle will do well, and I know that I will try to do well, and I know that in our time we did well.
I do wish I had a little more cash though. I'm fuckin' broke.
C'est la vie.
