The first time I felt sentimental about leaving California was in March when I sold my surfboard. All of a sudden, just like that, a lifestyle that had been so important to me -- one laden with memories of specific people, places, and moments, like my ex-boyfriend Jon who taught me to surf, like four-mile beach, like the time we saved a sea otter pup or pulled a man ashore who had snapped his leg -- was no more. Surfing and Pennsylvania? That might be the first time someone has written the two in the same sentence.
I didn't think that selling my board would be such a sad experience at all until I had the check in my hands. Immediately I felt like I had been kicked in the chest. That's it. At least for now. No more pearling under sweet Pacific waves, no more thrill of catching a big one, no more humbling wipe outs, no more seeing old surfer friends I've known for ten years now, still going to the same spot, still doing the same routine and saying the same gossip. Beautiful local bullshit.
Around the same time, the "little" things like walking my dog and talking to the children in my neighborhood, like commuting by bicycle to SJSU, like helping my grandma every week with her home in Cupertino began to affect my senses. Duke is the most popular dog in a neighborhood packed with children. Girls far outnumber the boys in this neighborhood and they have just been a joy to have watched sprout up these past two years. A walk with Duke that coincides with school getting out brings forth a mob of small children running up to us screaming, "Dukie! Dukieeeee!" Small hands pet his fur as his tail wags with excitement at such luxury, and charming child's questions like "How much you want for him? Ten dollars? Seventeen?" and "Can I keep him when he gets old?" -- as if Duke is not an integral part of our family but just something we would give away when he deteriorates with age -- keep me laughing and on my toes. What a joy these kids are -- kids who probably wouldn't talk to me much if it weren't for my golden companion, big and goofy and happy, bringing forth a peaceful and therapeutic experience for these youngsters as they get home from their days.
I'm going to miss these kids. Lilie and Jasmine, the two girls who live behind us, are always outside building and creating! I will never forget the day that I came outside to let Duke go to the bathroom when I saw the most epic tree fort with the girls inside: table, blankets, books covered up in big branches like a tee pee. The two boys across the street, Elias and Jonas, were standing on their lawn in both awe and jealousy. Some hours later, I was out again and I looked over at the boys' lawn to see a pathetic attempt at a fort: a couple of sticks and a blanket leaning up against the wall. Sorry boys, but I think the girls won this time! My next door neighbor's little girl -- another Jasmine -- is the sweetest and kindest 11-year-old, packing her day with trumpet lessons, reading books, learning Mandarin, and helping mom. And our landlord's five-year-old Nima is an absolute light from God: his spirit is so precious, dynamic, different: not at all shy, Nima boldy walks up to Justin and me with the most fantastical stories and adventures, mostly concocted in his head with very little truth to them, yet spoken with such drama and excitement you just wonder where he gets this stuff!
And Duke's and my routine -- a walk in the morning and one more in the evening -- has all of a sudden become more special. I notice the blooms now, the vibrant colors and the mathematics and physics of California's flora and fauna. I've always been a huge addict of "looking up" when I walk so that I can see the curving tree branches, the birds, the perspective that everyone else seems to miss or forget about. Now, I'm just doing that more often, apprehensive about the day that I trip over my own feet or entangle myself in Duke's leash. My daily run on Los Gatos Creek Trail past the ponds and river and dog park and ducks, geese, blue herons, swan is just a tad brighter and more meaningful, and the bike ride to campus -- although always enjoyable -- has become one of patient, warm, and kind "hellos," of slowing down and taking in what I often zoom past.
Obviously knowing that we will not see friends and family for awhile causes some sadness, yes, but also worry. Everyone always asks, "Are you going to miss Nick?", my little brother who has a rare and terminal disease Ataxia-Telengiectasia and who has both mental and physical disabilities. I don't even need to respond to that, but I do with a, "Well, yes." And it's not just missing Nick and my mom, but it's also the guilt of not being around to help. The family understands these things and we know that this is a special time in my life, and it all is what it is. Although I will obviously miss my family and Justin's family, my grandma is the one I will have a lot of trouble leaving behind. Having lived in Cupertino since the 1940s, she maintains a history and aesthetic in her home that transports you back in time. The dark green shag carpet in the living room, the original ovens that I dare never use for fear of burning down the house, the several vintage Cadillacs in the garage that belonged to my Grandpa, a former NASA engineer, genius pianist, and mayor of Cupertino. My grandma and I have a very close relationship that is not shared by my other siblings, which is not their fault: I was just lucky enough that my life choices pushed me to the south bay. I lived with her for my first three years of undergraduate school at SJSU, saving me both money and from the disturbing dorm life and allowing me to focus on my studies in a safe and quiet home. We took early morning walks at Rancho San Antonio almost every morning, and we'd oft go out to breakfast at Country Gourmet in Sunnyvale -- our favorite spot to this day. After returning to the Bay Area three years ago after attaining my Master's degree and getting a job at SJSU, I now visit my grandma at least once a week, sometimes just for company and a swim in her pool, and other times to help with cleaning the house, doctor's appointments, or other obligations. Without my being there, I worry about my grandma's loneliness. All other family live several hours away. Her friends are at the point in their lives when they are having much medical trouble, are losing their minds, or are passing away. Turning 80 this August and in amazing mental and physical health, my grandma struggles with seeing her friends change and knowing that her social circle continues to shrink. I will miss my grandma so much: she is the only person who will "talk books" with me outside my colleagues. We just get each other.
Justin's grandparents are having a hard time. In their 90s, grandma slips away from Alzheimer's and grandpa's physical health continues a painful decline after a long, difficult, and incredible career as a fighter pilot in the Air Force. We will have to come to terms with the fact that when we say goodbye this month, we may not get to see them ever again.
We will be missing out. No more easy trips up to see my mom, siblings, aunts, cousins, in-laws. Justin and I know no one in Pennsylvania and very few people in the Northeast. This will be hard, and that just didn't sink in until recently.
Packing up our belongings has me surrounded by memories. I told Justin, "Packing our stuff gets me so sentimental about everyone in our lives: all the photos, the sweet gifts, the trinkets." He looks at me, a typical man, I guess, and says after a pause, "I just...pack things." Well! For me, it is warming to take down photos I have on my office wall of people: some who are still close to me, others who have gone on to other adventures, and others who have passed away. Two feather medallions given to me by my dear friend Sam get zipped up in a special pouch as a reminder that one day I will make necklace out of them for her and me. Justin's and my wedding pictures get tucked away safely in a box. Gifts from grateful students: wooden ducks from a Korean student, magnets from a Chinese student, a necklace from a girl from Hong Kong: all of these beautiful people from my past flood me with their presence once more. All the lives that I have changed and that have changed me are making the journey to Pennsylvania in small, cardboard boxes.
And lastly, the therapeutic and gratifying act of throwing away things we don't need! Clothes hoarders, we have given away bags to Goodwill. Pieces of furniture that will be easily replaceable and not that important to take along will be thrown on Craigslist and Facebook for strangers and friends to ponder picking up for a few pennies. Yes, we are being washed by the water and beginning again.
Excited, anxious, reflective, here we are tonight, ending another night of packing.
