This is the trouble with moving somewhere new— you have to leave someplace. You have to append “last” in front of all these places and people because it is a qualifier that will discretize your life and give you some perception of time, and distance, and growing up.
Then, the first few hours after the goodbye are the worst: coming down from that high of wit and coffee in lieu of sleep. The parting itself, too fleeting and abrupt, because after all there is no good way to drive off feeling any sort of conclusion when you don’t really want the presence of finality tugging you away anyway.
Soon after that the nostalgia creeps in, slowly at first, curling wispy tendrils around the bedposts in the dark stillness before sleep and catching you off guard. But it seeps into you, a pang in the bottom of your stomach, and then a kind of dull ache that touches only the mind, and then a torrent of memories choking the air, leaving a fading trail of bittersweetness.
I wish I could keep everyone together in my pockets.