no counting

There was this great family dinner moment yesterday where my grandma (really my aunt's mom who only says a few words in English: thank you and potato) says (in Spanish) to my Uncle, "The meat is really good today, what happened?!" A highlight of our Sunday family dinners.

Last week a friend asked me how many family dinners I had left before I moved. "I don't know, I haven't started a countdown."

And I don't want to know.

I want to pretend this will keep going on for always until the day before I move and then I will say goodbye and hug and kiss you all and maybe cry when I'm all by myself (all by myseee-ee-eelf). It's strange to feel so torn, to feel like I'm missing something by leaving in July instead of late August when most of my friends have already moved, and most of the rest–ok one, one friend is moving the week after. I won't be missing any midnight skinny dipping in Mona, or front porch sitting, face yoga, or discussions about returning to an agrarian lifestyle. They'll happen for others probably, but not for the people I've grown accustomed to. This time is passing. The diaspora has already begun, the time is growing near to jump ship.


The reality of my decision to move to North Dakota is hovering around me like some strange dreamlike fog tinged with feelings of excitement, determination, and horror. I don't think I know yet how it will feel to say goodbye to this place I've lived in for six years (and loved for four). This time is passing extremely quickly.

Theory: diaspora pushes you into adulthood