Having worked our way through Boston and upstate New York, we are here to visit colleges. And (who are we kidding?) to bond. I don't get a lot of 1:1 time with her. We're both busy. To have eight days together is a mitzvah. We're each in the process of letting go. Her: childhood, certain frenemies, prom expectations. Me: what my kid will like in a college and why, my parents' home in Petaluma and, by extension, their lives. The latter has been especially challenging, making it hard to write. Words seem small and insignificant when you're attending to the all-encompassing business of erasing lives. To lose the last tangible part of them has cratered me anew in ways unexpected.
Each time I go to pack up, clear out, discard, I'm left standing (or kneeling or in a fetal position) in their living room in tears. Last time, the trigger was learning that they used this silly-putty-of-sorts to adhere my grandmother's handpainted china to the dining room display shelves—in the event of an earthquake of course. They were, above all, Midwesterners who kept things safe.
To lose them is one thing. To let go is another. It may, however, be the only way through. Or so I read recently here.
Unrelated postscript: our Sonic Yoga instructor closed with this song this morning. Aron Wright also covers In the Sun, as featured on Gray's Anatomy. Worth a listen.