Seattle 155, or Echoing Rooms

My Secret Agent Lover Man looks up as I walk into the (no longer does it seem like my) room, freshly showered after a day of doctor's offices and packing. I'm still a little giddy from having successfully offloaded our three couches onto strapping young university students. It seems like everything is going to get done, and this move is going to be Okay. We go over the logistics of the next few days one more time -

"...and then Landlord walks us through at 7:30 am Monday morning. And then Joel and Martina drive off into the sunrise, and I...I get my stuff to your house and go for a checkup at 4."

It's the middle part that catches me. Soon, very soon, we will be gone from this house and community. And Joel - well, we're good friends. Our relationship exists largely in conversation. When I miss him, I'll call him, and we'll talk until we're caught up, and that'll be that.

Martina is another story. She's my farmer's market buddy, my bacon conspirator, the one with whom I can talk in eyebrows and glances. We live well together. Our conversations don't stray into the very deep or personal. We agree about house cleanliness standards. We can get irritated with one another without fearing it'll wreck the friendship. But we won't call. She likes handwritten letters; maybe one or two of those will happen. But Martina is the greatest loss I feel right now.

This is weird. I mean, my community is largely dissolving - this is the group of people who have taken care of me, and shared my life for the last two years, and this could very well be the last time I get to do this communal living thing on such a scale. But it hasn't hit me yet.

SALM watches me as I talk about J&M leaving. He extends his one good hand (he broke his wrist last week) and tilts his head until I look him in the eye.

"You can be vulnerable with me," he says. "You're tough. You don't cry in front of me, and I know it's partially because you're always thinking about holding me together. Holding us together. And I've needed a lot of help this week. But I'm here now, and I'm not going to break if you need to cry over the kibbutz."

I rest my head in his lap for a minute, but I feel antsy. There's still too much to do. This loss isn't allowed to hit me until I'm far enough away from it. Columbus, maybe. Perhaps Boston.

But in the meantime, I can sigh over the loss of a great housemate. That much I can grieve. So I tell him about Martina. About how I can count on her for wardrobe advice and how we can vent about our lives without getting too wrapped up in each other. About her willingness to go places with me, to make food together. He nods. I nod. He leans over to kiss my forehead and I duck away. Maybe it's true what he says, that he can handle me breaking down. But I can't handle me breaking down yet. There's still too much to do. And as long as there's a to-do list, the Kibbutz isn't really gone.