So Long Frank Lloyd Wright

I sit at my desk and stare across the hall into a darkened office. His desk is cleared and all his personal items have been placed in boxes and taken away, making it difficult to see any glimpse of personality that once defined the room. The Big Wednesday poster and surf magazines that tickled one area of his interests are gone along with a dog bed and dog toys. Books that were important and a stack of magazines that bestowed an award on him are no longer on his shelves and coffee table. Even his whiteboard is clean; a medium that once displayed his ideas –some big, some bold, some small. In its place is a statement of love to all who shared his workday. I like the thought that it’s meant just for me.

Ever since he floated the idea of leaving I thought there would be a last day to say goodbye. But it hasn’t worked out that way. He’s just slowly faded away up to his new office and ultimately his new home. In some way I’m glad about that. I think I envisioned him, the Ber, Livy and Lexi piling in the car. We’d all hug and say goodbye, hiding our tears. Maybe I’d tell him again it’s all for the best and try for a final hug that would mean more than the one I had just given him. And then I would watch the doors close and the car roll slowly down the street, the brake lights go on, and then it would disappear around the corner and they’d be on their way. I’m not sure I could have endured that.

For too long I’ve been wasting my time talking to him about business and not enough about his personal life and dreams and ambitions. He was the one I wanted to tangle intellectually the most with, but I burned up that time on the mundane instead of the meaningful. We’ll talk on the phone and have occasional visits, but it won’t be the same -- much as it is now with the Girl.

My mind drifts back to the day he was born and I remember taking him home from the hospital. I was wondering what I had just stumbled into. That was the first day nobody had to tell me that I mattered. That feeling only doubled when the Girl was born 16 months later. On his first night, he slept, we didn’t. I remember what it looked like the first time he smiled at me. I was cradling him on the couch when he was four or five weeks old and trying to get him to fall asleep. He looked up and smiled. It wasn’t just his mouth that smiled, it was in his eyes. He and I have known each other in this same unspoken way ever since.

I hope it doesn’t seem I am only sad to see him go. That’s the kick in the gut feeling that comes from the emotion of loss. The truer thought is pride. I couldn’t be happier for him that he has earned such an opportunity to grow personally and professionally. I remember what that world looked like for me when everything was new and exciting. Of course there are feelings of trepidation and unease as he and his family make this change – as there should be. At the same time, I know he will embrace the challenge and the tail off his comet will be the envy of all around.

For now, though, I just want to feel my loss. Not because I’m morose or a pathetic sad sack. It’s just how I feel. I know we’re different people and we come from different places and a different time. I was never integral to my parents the way he is integral to me and I think he knows that. Having the relationship I have with both my kids makes times like this much tougher. It can also make it that much more bittersweet when good changes occur.

At the end of the day, I go back into his office and look around a bit longer this time. I sit on the couch and know my life is changed forever. Opportunities like this don’t come around that often and, as a parent, we hope for our children to have a bucket full of them before they settle on what interests them the most. Having both my kids living in a different city now and starting new chapters in their lives gives me pride and hope. It’s the distance and lack of proximity that makes me sad.