maypirate

I feel tired.

I feel drained.

I feel a little ill from eating a brat, drinking a soda, then chasing Don's car down my street as he drove away.

I hate goodbyes.

I'm sick of them.

So this isn't goodbye.

"My only sketch of heaven," said Emily Dickinson, "Is a bright blue sky, and a bigger sky than the largest I have ever seen in June, and in it are all my friends, every one of them."

And that's how I feel too.

I want to pack you all in my suitcases and take you with me.

I have to settle for taking you in my heart, in my mind, in my memories, in my photos.

It always sounds too final, but it's not the end of the world, it's far from it.

I'll be writing here, I'll be talking to you, we'll know what's going on, won't we?

We will.

Take care of yourselves and each other. I've always felt like that was my job, taking care of you whether you wanted it or not, whether you needed it or not, but I can't be there right now, so please, for me.

Please understand that I love you more than you will ever truly know.

"I'll be on the other side to hear you when you call."

"I want you to know that I want to go."

Not goodbye, just "I'll be seeing you."

I want to get up into that sky, and I want to go, and when I meet the other side of the ocean that I stood in a few weeks ago, I'll wave.

Keep an eye out for me, okay?

And I'll talk to you soon.