my husband the pitcher man. my stylish father.
There was a sunset last night. There was a sunset as we loaded the last of our boxes into cars. I don't mean that in the way that there are sunsets every night. I mean there was a sunset last night, that burned pink and orange and dark blue, getting brighter by the minute.
I need a picture of that. After this box, I'm getting a picture of that sunset.
I never took a picture. And I'm still thinking about how I regret not taking a picture of that gorgeous sunset that bid us farewell on the last day in our first apartment of our whole entire life together. As I drove away, I saw it drop behind the horizon. It sunk down past the cut-out-cardboard silhouette of the mountains, where you can never get anything back once it's gone.
These are the things I do to myself, in my brain. It's torture. Because obviously that wasn't the last sunset I'll ever see, and it isn't as if we're moving out of the country or anything. We live ten minutes away if you take the freeway, and will most likely end up back in American Fork by Fall. But moving has always been significant for me.
You take down all of your carefully-placed pictures, all of the magnets that held little notes to the fridge. You take down that card someone wrote you or that potted plant your mom gave you which almost died that one time you went on vacation and forgot about it. You take it all down, you pack it all up. You literally move on.
It's the ending of one chapter, the beginning of another. And it makes me so nostalgic and sentimental I practically drown in the feeling of it all. Such ridiculous emotional indulgence. Who knows how I function on a regular basis.
And the kids at that radio station must have been pretty in-tune with the universe last night, because then they played "Home."
Home. Let me come home.
Home is wherever I'm with you.
Oh, home. Yes, I am home.
Home is where I'm alone with you.
And, for some reason, that about made up for the whole sunset thing.