never enough

I remember when I made my first move when I was fourteen.  I wrote essays to each of my five best friends, candidly telling them what they meant to me and how they made me feel as a person, but I never delivered them.  I didn't think it was worth it.  I spent the first few nights crying by the light of my computer in our new furniture-less rental home.  I had so eagerly awaited moving day, and I was only mildly upset about leaving behind my friends of two to five years, so it surprised me how hard a mix of nostalgia and regret and pure sadness had hit me.

I remember my last night in Australia.  I thought I would be distraught beyond comprehension, but I felt surprisingly okay to be parting ways with my four best friends because I was so determined to see them each in the following years.  I was confident in our fast friendship, and our farewells were half a joyous mapping of future meetings and trips around the country.  But so far I haven't successfully made it to California/Arizona/Nevada/New Jersey/DC to reconnect with the people who made being so far away from my family a lot bit easier.

Peacing from Duke a year early was not a difficult decision, but I didn't consider how I might feel once everyone else finally peaced, too.

You apparently cannot say goodbye enough times.

I spent the better half of three/four-ish years trying to reconcile the love-hate relationship I have with Duke as a whole, regretting the academic choices I've made or the opportunities I've missed or the less than stellar GPA I've solidified... that I forgot what it is that actually makes college "the best years of your life."

I've developed such a soft spot for everyone I know I'm going to miss whether a close friend, a friend I wish I had gotten closer to, or a friend I've already grown apart from.  I knew I had to try to deliver the letters (or a part of the letters) I had been slowly writing in my head all year.

Goodbyes can be symbolic like that.  A final declaration, followed by a hug, a promise to see each other again, and the actual "Bye," but what happens when I don't want to pull away or let go?  What happens when one or a thousand pictures isn't enough because no one can feel our friendship in a picture?  What happens when it will take more than a five to twenty minute drive to be at your doorstep?

I will remember this as the hardest goodbye.  To have to face the realization that even if you have become one of the most important people to me, I might not be able to see you again to physically be with you while catching up on stories or laughing about old inside jokes.  To have to come to terms with the fact that maybe it might not be possible to put aside a weekend for your wedding or be the cool aunt to your children or even be whatever-you-need at every heartbreaking tragedy... let alone to be at more of the small celebrations and dinner conversations and lazy nights that had forged our friendship throughout college.  To have to accept that despite the fact that it would physically hurt me to lose you to time and distance, we might drift apart over the next years just because our lives weren't meant to intersect again.

I'm often so afraid of people, and then losing people, that I tend to push them to the back of my priorities list when it comes time to think about the next step in life.  I am awful at keeping in touch, (not proud) poster child of "Out of sight, out of mind."  They always say (in fact, our Commencement speaker said) to make every moment count.  "Make it matter."  You never know when it'll be the last.  Maybe it was significant that Graduation Day also fell on Mother's Day because as I tried to resist tears, I berated myself for always forgetting that simple, cliche-but-true lesson.  For continuing to take for granted the time I spend with people who matter (isn't this also why you got the damn tattoo in the first place, Amelia?), for forgetting to show appreciation, because "I'll see you later."

I will remember you as (but not limited to) someone who has sat with me as I cried uncontrollably, someone who effortlessly makes me laugh when I didn't think I wanted to, someone who shares my secrets without judgment, someone who talked me through the typical existential crisis of what to do with myself, someone who reminds me that I'm not the only one, someone who I finally connected with after searching years for understanding, someone who encourages me to be less shy, someone who admires my hobby-turned-career, someone who makes me feel included, someone who taught me how to be a good friend.

Words cannot express, but I will always be writing letters.