My McGriddle breakfast with a large coffee and medium orange juice cost under $10. It felt like a steal compared to San Francisco prices… though I haven’t had McDonald’s in years – maybe it’s just as cheap out there. It’s early yet. It’s dark and wet – and warmer than I was expecting. I’m in State College, PA this morning. Soon, I’ll be driving to Philadelphia where I’ll catch a 4pm flight back to California. It’s been a short trip. I was able to see most of the people I wanted to see. On more than one occasion, I felt the bittersweet heaviness of departure.
Though I’m sure I had experienced that heavy feeling many times before, I first noticed it, the physical sensation of it, when I was dating a woman and on Sundays after a weekend together, we would be saying our goodbyes. It was only for a day or two, but we both felt this strange heaviness. We’d talk about it – mostly because neither of us were sure where this nervousness was coming from. We couldn’t pinpoint it though it felt a little like dread. It didn’t feel entirely bad, but it didn’t feel good either. I’ve had that feeling many times since. I felt it when I took a long road trip through the Carolinas as I interviewed at a bunch of jobs. I felt it when I flew out to St. Louis for a final round interview. I felt a little sick in my stomach every time I’ve packed the moving truck (to Memphis, to State College, to California). I’ve felt it before and after meeting up with friends on my various trips back home. I felt it as I drove away from Yardley on my long road trip across the country and again yesterday as I left for State College (and several times on the road to State College). I’m sure it will creep up again as I make my way to Philly and board the plane. I don’t know what to name this feeling, much less describe it. But it’s there – the sweet sorrow of parting.
That’s only one of the overriding sentiments of the holiday season and of coming back home. The other is this mix of gratitude and absence. I was trying to write about it in my post, “‘Tis the Season.” I’ve thoroughly enjoyed seeing and spending time with my family and friends these past few days. Yet, on more than one occasion, I felt like someone or something was was missing. I spent the better part of my adult life as a father and a husband and it’s often at times like the holidays when the absence of that intimate other is most deeply felt. It’s in the car rides when I would expect to unwind and debrief – when I would expect to turn to someone with a sigh and say “I can’t wait to get home,” or “that was fun, but I’m tired.” This feeling comes in small waves: when a familiar song comes on the radio or when I drive by something that I would normally point out to my co-pilot. This feeling, in turn, makes me think about my past co-pilots – how much I enjoyed spending time with some of them – doing the most mundane things. This is also when I would like to be more determined and deliberate in seeking out those experiences and shrug because that kind of intimacy can’t be forced.
It’s lighter out now – as gray as I remember it. I’ve packed my things. My suitcase is by the door, the car keys are next to me. The feeling is in my chest. It’ll come in waves as I drive through the brown hills of Pennsylvania and as I eat lunch and people watch at the airport, and probably again as I walk into my apartment and contemplate what I’d like to see in 2025 – which isn’t terribly different from where I’ve been before.