Even when it’s for the best parting affects deeply. Miguel Perez shares a moment, and a lifetime with us.
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We emptied the house completely today. It’s ready for the new owners. When the packing and storing was over he got in his car. He wasn’t coming back. This was it. This was the end of our time living together.
Friends have said I’ve been selfish, keeping him close, not letting him be his own man. I could not devise a solid argument against that. So the house was sold, and emptied.
The evening prior, the night of Alex’s 26th birthday, we slept on the floor of the last place we were to live together. We worked all day together getting rid of the last of the detritus of a family that existed only in memory. And when we were done we went our separate ways.
He started the engine.
“Are you coming back after this run to your Mom’s”
“I don’t think so”
“Well then, this is it”
“I know. Dry your tears Dad, this isn’t goodbye”
“I know”
And after a moment he put the dinged-up sedan in reverse, backed out the driveway and set off on his way to another house.
He stopped and held up his right hand against the driver side window. It was a wave, a salute, an acknowledgement of the import of the moment. In a second I saw, superimposed on his face, the tiny newborn with hair on his shoulders, the funny little toddler who liked to play “Superdark” under a blanket, the feisty infant who would not go to sleep, the sweet faced 11 year old in rumpled blue pajamas, the petulant teen with hair down to his waist, the wiggy, brilliant young man who is always up for a debate.
He drove off, slowly, with his eyes on me, and I wept. As I walked through the empty house a final time, surprised at the way my footsteps echoed, I stopped, sat on the floor, and wept some more. It is right to send him on his way. But it hurts so, so, so, much.
Photo provided by author