As we drove from our hotel near my grandmother's to fly home, I had a vague sense of familiarity and a realization that I might never travel that road again. With my grandmother no longer there, what reason would I have to be in that place? This realization hit my brother much harder--he has been a more frequent visitor, and a more consistent one. Over the years, we have approached her condo from many different directions and only once a year, if that. He has driven that road, back and forth, each time, year after year.
There has been a fair amount of "leaving behind" in my little family over the past year. For me, One Life to Live, and the extended family it gave me for so many years. For my high schooler, the school she had attended since kindergarten and many of the friends there that she now rarely sees. For my little guy, his neighborhood school. And now, for all of us, my grandmother and that road to and from a Florida airport.
Leaving behind is hard, no question, but my hope, as I always tell my daughter (not sure if it ever helps, but I keep saying it!) is that in leaving behind, we can also leave ourselves open to look ahead.
Over her 98 years, my grandmother somehow managed to do that over and over. Moved to Florida long before that's what people did. Sold bagels and coffee at the Jewish Center even if it meant getting up at the crack of dawn to pick up the bagels in time for the morning rush. Discovered the Gap so she could send outfits to her great-granddaughters. Sat in her motorized scooter, people-watching from her third-floor balcony, when she was no longer mobile enough to be out and about.
Bottom line, we can all find ways--sometimes big, and sometimes very tiny--to look ahead--to take new roads--when we are forced to leave things and people behind.
So I fly home, I move on, and I look ahead (which will happen mighty quickly with the demands of three kids, three schools, and laundry).
That road may not be taken again, but it will not be forgotten.
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