It’s moving season. Free couches, mattresses, coffee table, TVs that may or may not work, shelves, all sit on the curbs next to moving trucks. I’m moving myself, but only across town. Lotus (Pumpkin’s sister) is moving to Minneapolis, and she and her boyfriend have compressed their possessions into their car and a moving truck. They’re both stressed, but Lotus comes over for a gin martini with Pumpkin and I. I sit on the edge of porch as they share the bench, blankets wrapped around their legs to protect from the chill (it’s unusually cool for July). Pumpkin lays forth her jealousies, Lotus her insecurities. I watch two sisters I love dearly sharing an intimate moment, and I know it’s right that I am not sitting on that porch swing with them, but I also know that it’s okay that I am here witnessing this, sitting with bare legs exposed to the cold mist of the night.
I also know that it’s okay that Lotus is going away from here. Separations prove friendships. Lotus and I drifted apart after high school ended and we no longer had the French horn section of band or the school plays to keep us in constant contact, but when I moved to Iowa City, we picked up where we left off. Friendships such as these, the kinds that last through long hiatuses and big changes, are rare and wonderful.
My gas light is on when I drop Lotus off at her house after our cocktails.
“This isn’t goodbye,” Lotus says.
“No, of course not. It’s a see you later,” I insist. We perform the litany of promises: postcards, Skype, emails, visits. I plan to fulfill them all. I am excited for her. I’ll miss her. I’ll miss seeing her with her sister or across a table at a coffeeshop as we both work on our projects. But, I have to keep reminding myself, it’s not goodbye.
I will fill my gas tank. Lotus and I will keep touch. I will close my eyes and hug her tight and not think about any of that at this moment, because we are not saying goodbye.