Time To Go

The freeze of winter had set in and piles of snow lined the driveway of my Wisconsin home. It was Tuesday, January 9, 1979, and I was about to begin a new life in a much warmer climate. Months previous and after much discussion and planning, a college friend agreed to accompany me on this venture. The reality of the decision was setting in as my brothers transferred me into the car for the drive to O’Hare in Chicago.

Several days earlier, my sister and my friend left in my van. Packed with all of my belongings, it was so full there wasn’t an inch of space to spare. Their destination and mine--Phoenix, Arizona. A call several hours before my departure informed my parents that they had arrived safely and would be waiting for me at Sky Harbor Airport.

As my brothers finished lifting me into the front seat of dad’s car and buckling my seatbelt, out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother standing silently in the entryway of the house. A parka I had bought myself last winter was wrapped around her small frame. The goodbye with her was difficult and said in the privacy of the house. The car pulled out of the driveway and I knew mom was standing there waving with a smile on her face until the tail lights of the car disappeared. That was just her habit.

For almost five years Mother had been battling cancer. Without mentioning it, we all knew that her health was declining. Not knowing when I’d return home, I was thinking that this goodbye was the last goodbye. This heartache overtook me and I began to sob. In a small understanding gesture, my father reached over and patted my leg saying, “I know exactly what you’re thinking.” For a long time we were silent.