Endings are strange things. We go to a party and stand in small circles and remind each other that we do not forget. We laugh at the bad things that happened and how bad they were, and we cry for the good things that happened and how good they were. The laughs are talismans against future bad things, and the tears are little sacrifices in the hopes that the good things will come again.
As I race around this city preparing to leave it I am making little lists. I am sending out little prayers to all the people that shared all of those moments. I am saying, I do not forget. I do not forget the cups of coffee. The laughing. The bedrooms. The sunrises. The flat tires. The sing-a-longs. The black eyes. The kisses. The bathrooms. The dances. The nights. The night.
I am leaving you Portland Oregon. Now that I am leaving the city is blooming again. The pollen of each of these events is falling down around me and sometimes I find myself, very unexpectedly, in a place I have not been for a long time. Or loving something I have not loved for a long time.
When this happens I stop and I remember, and I remind myself that only from the end does the beginning ever look this good.
