Leaving For New England
When moving or leaving on a long-anticipated journey there comes a moment you expect to stand for the entire experience. If you’re leaving by car and leaving friends and family you roll down the window and wave to the people waving to you from the curb, all of you calling out dopey, necessary goodbye things; I’ll call when I get there; go safely, as if otherwise you would have gone dangerously and you are gaining talismanic protection against the truly insane drivers who manage to keep American licenses. The silence as you pass out of hearing and roll up the window seems to contain—in condensed form, like some NASA food meant to be reconstituted in zero gravity—all the daily nothings you won’t have occasion to exchange—their accumulated weight, a bare residue of their flavor.
The oddest moment is waking up the morning of departure. If you haven’t finished packing, you can look around knowing that in a few hours you will have dismantled your surroundings.
When I last lived in Massachusetts, Pearl Jam was taking on Ticketmaster, Newt Gingrich was Minority Whip and downtown New York could still be a little spooky at night.
It feels good to be going back, and forward.
