goodbye
Dear Ciara,
It’s fitting that our time at the Cutler house began with rain—heavy, pelting rain—and now ends with it. Outspread on the couch, I watch the droplets fall as the removal truck arrives. I think of my landlord upstairs, shuffling about, the pain in her hip ripe as an orange. She is shortly scheduled for surgery, and so I feel guilty for leaving her at this time.
But I know I must go—I cannot stay here forever, even if the land is familiar and the library is within reach. Even if I have grown fond of how the flamebush and the carruther’s falseface bring the birds.
The Organist tells me that what I am feeling is normal. That with all change comes duality: gaining something new and the sense of leaving something behind. Bittersweet is too strong a word for what I am feeling, for I am not bitter. But there is a sense of loss, as though a caterpillar has taken a tiny bite from the flesh of my fruit.
Lots of fruit metaphors today, it seems.
The new house is everything I have ever wanted: a tropical orchard, at least ten varieties of fruit trees growing along the fence; an outdoor shower kept private by the spiralling vines of a philodendron; and wooden floors that creak when I walk. At night, spectacled flying foxes perform acrobatics across my yard. Geckos chirrup. And in the day, I watch honeyeaters and friarbirds feed from the red callistemon above.
We load our boxes on the truck. The head removalist is quiet, but professional. He knows what he is doing. I cannot tell if his workers are lathered in rain or sweat—perhaps a mixture of both. Before long, the house is empty. I stare out at the dust-laden floor, my heart heavy, but the allure of change carries me forward. The Organist will return to the Cutler house tomorrow to help clean; this moment here right now will be my last.
I kiss the house goodbye. I am grateful for what it gave me: an appreciation of nature; a friend/grandmother in my landlord; time and space for me to save my money and build my future. But it is time to go.
I leave.
The song for today is:
fare thee well — Susanne Sundfør
Love,
The Gardener