Away We Go: Lasts, Part Two
It is the end of 425 days of Away We Go. We are spending this last day in a state adjacent to the one we lived in for so long so there's a familiarity to it. Humidity and cicada calls, midwestern accents and muddy river water. The cost of gasoline is on level with a state that relies on the industry.
We have traveled 55,025 miles. We have stayed in over a hundred campgrounds. We have packed and unpacked so many times. I've touched all the things I own in a single day because there aren't that many of them.
I've had dozens of meetings interrupted by bad cell signal. I've learned how to type on bumpy dirt roads. I've officially moved to the dark side and read books on my phone, even though I long for the smell of a library and the weight of a novel's pages. We have been the only license plate from our state.
Long way from home, they say. Those are the beginners. I was one of them hundreds of days ago.
What will I miss? I don't think I know yet. My hips are hurting from so many nights on a few inches of mattress atop a piece of plywood so a proper amount of nighttime cushion will be welcome. I don't mind not showering in the desert but a bit of conditioner and a clean face for bed would be nice for a few days. Being able to sleep on a windy night without feeling my entire foundation moving might be nice.
“When it’s not over yet but you’re getting to the point of ‘lasts,’ you’re saying goodbye in a dozen different ways. ”
I don’t know how to feel about this. The memories are starting to fade already even though it is only the last day. I have a compulsion to create something from the images, videos, and maps we've collected along the way. Strangely, it feels critical that the boys don’t lose any of their memories of this time. I know that their ages mean they are on the cusp of forming memories that might, only by chance, make it into adulthood.
I need for them to remember this. It's a hand pressing on my stomach. Maybe because I still expect them to thank me for it someday? Or maybe I want them to have these memories to help buoy them up when things get difficult? That somehow having done this will have made their lives better? Maybe it's just that I want reassurance that I've done the right thing. That I've dragged us here and there and away across so many miles. I need someone to tell me that I did the right thing.
I'm not going to get it. I will have to settle for the words of my still small voice that says yes, my dear. You did OK. Even if the last day isn't great, the entire enterprise was far better, on balance, than the alternative.
I know I should listen to her. What niggles is that it was certainly the right the to do for me but I don’t know if it was for the rest of my family. There are times when I don't care. There are times when it's the only thing I can think about.
It's ironic that I’m nervous about the last day because right now, for the first time in a very long time, there's significant certainty. I am driving across the country to a place where I know the address and what color the garage needs to be painted and where I need to put a couch. But maybe that's the problem. I'm not going to a campground, I don't have to look as closely at the weather, and I won't be packing and unpacking all my belongings every other day. That, to the me that is now, represents a change.
It's like the waning days of summer camp. You're excited to go back home, eat whenever you want, sleep in your bed, be lazy, have some alone time, tell your friends what happened. But you're not quite there yet. For me, any impending separation means pulling back. It’s an attempt to avoid and control the timeline of reducing the inevitable ache. It’s never actually worked but apparently I’m going to keep trying. Maybe ask Sisyphus for some advice in the meantime.
When it's not over yet but you’re getting to the point of "lasts", you're saying goodbye in a dozen different ways. Even if you know it’s temporary from the get go. Living in an RV wasn't something we were going to do forever. I had stray thoughts about continuing, especially when meeting other families that made the school piece of it work, but I decided and do not regret the decision to be done. I can't be the sole teacher anymore and my children need to have a thread of a narrative that doesn’t revolve around me. I want to be around mostly myself during a few consecutive days too.
I know I will miss being present for almost every moment of their lives but I’m also ready to be surprised by something that comes up in conversation during dinner. This is both selfish and selfless in equal measure.
What have I given us? What have I taken away? How will this last turn into a first?
There is no map for this. No lilting female voice reminding me it’s time to turn left and enter the freeway.
Nonetheless, here we go.
Inspired by events in Fort Smith, Arkansas. Also: Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Arizona, New Mexico, California, Oregon, Florida, Arkansas, Georgia, Alabama, and Texas.
Share to