Stinky farewells

I realized recently that I have always been the leaver. Since high school I have moved every 2-3 years. Graduated, job, new job, husband to school, graduated, job. I never loved leaving friends behind, but when you are the one leaving you are usually going to something relatively exciting, so it numbs the pain of the departure a bit.

Since living in San Diego we have had two dear families leave. You know Ms. Minna and Roger (his name is actually Justin, but their last name is Rogers and Joseph used to call him Roger...so I still do). They moved to San Francisco about a year ago (more soon on our recent visit with them). That was sad, but I think we were still so new here and it didn't feel like home yet...and they weren't actually moving out of California...it just did not feel so...permanent.

Well, the Dashers sublet the house across the street for the past year. You've seen Lou in the posts before. We've loved the Dashers. Leigh Ann and I were both pregnant when we met and had Bert and Greta just 3 months apart. We swapped kids and recipes. We shared meals and parenting woes. It was just so easy. Similar sense of humor. Similar love of food (have I mentioned that in three different ways already?). Similar longings for our kids. And different enough in world view and life experience to be interesting and challenging. About three months before they were scheduled to move, I warned Mike that I might need a time of mourning.

I had a lump in my throat for 3 days and the day they moved I cried. The kids and I moped back into the house and unintentionally found ourselves at the kitchen table with every craft item we owned spread about. Subconscious art therapy I suppose.





Leigh Ann texted a picture just the other day of Lou's hands - with BandAids on his thumbs - still wanting to be like Joseph. So thankful they haven't forgotten us, even though they were the ones to move on. It's hard being the ones left.