I’m sitting at The Spot. You know the one. On Boylston, sandwiched between that sorta-new burger place and the old-ish bookstore. Where we re-charge and catch-up. The one that starts with P- and ends with -avement.
I just walked out of 150 Massachusetts Avenue for the last time, and I feel an unshakable urge to stop and reflect. Note that my mother will attest that I’m not generally one for nostalgia. I waltzed out of her car on my first day of kindergarten like I was going to an amusement park. But this–this is different. I have four days left in Boston, and yet I’m paralyzed. Whatever gene is responsible for this feeling is screaming out, not to be denied another minute.
I’m sitting at The Spot, my Spot. Can you believe that I have a Spot? And all of you, my friends, know exactly what I’m talking about. You would even if I didn’t give it away up there. If that isn’t a home, I don’t know what is. It’s the rare times like these–your life's “little deaths" where, even for a moment, a transition thrusts upon you with a clarity oh so profound–it’s times like these that life reveals exactly what it’s made of. What I’m going to be missing when I violently up-root myself, again, bittersweet, too soon.
The blurry and hurried mosaic of my life is slowing down for a moment, opening up to me with its dying breath. The small details–that particular beautiful hue of Boston’s blue sky (on a criminally gorgeous day, no less–not fair, Boston); the shell-against-your-ear sound of traffic, interrupted by incessant honks; the weird guy at that other burger place that insists on hitting on me every time I walk in. The significance of these threads is due to their apparent insignificance in everyday life–they’re important precisely because of how little I notice them on any given day. These are the backdrop upon which life takes place, and soon they will be gone.
I’m at The Spot, sitting at My Spot. The one I go to when I want to see my friends–or when I want to be left alone. My earbuds are in so people won’t bother me, even though I’m not listening to any music. It’s not that I don’t want to see them--I’ll get to that. I’ll say my goodbyes. But these are emotions that are difficult to put in to words, and that’s exactly why I’m doing what I’m doing right at this very second. Writing, creating, trying to make sense of my experience. Thankfully, no one has come in yet, which is great, because I might be lightly crying every now and then.
These aren’t all happy tears. It’s been a weird year. A weird four years, shit. I’ve loved with abandon and it’s abandoned me every time. I’ve lost my life’s passion, found it again, found myself more often than I can trust.
My hair isn’t blonde–I’ve just grayed so much that it’s gone full circle.
But these are happy tears. I’m happy with where I am, with where I’m going. And as one of the greatest men I know says, “That’s proof that you’ve never had a single regret.” I’m inclined to agree.
I’m leaving one home for another. I’ll have another Spot, and all my friends will meet me there. But unlike the move from Indiana to Boston, the home I’m leaving still calls to me. I know I’ve left my mark in Boston, and in turn it's left its mark on me. There’s a connection there that won’t ever truly die, like a friend so close that you can go without speaking to for eight months and it not be weird.
So…let’s wrap this up. This is goodbye, Boston. This is goodbye, for now, to the city I’ve come to love, and the people I’ve loved in it. Let’s not make this too sappy.
Thank you, and goodbye.