goodbye, mom

Man, I really hate saying Goodbye to people. I mean, it's so final and almost too automatic. Almost every time I moved, I would have this huge drawn out goodbye, it'd be sad and my friends would have this downtrodden look on their faces. But I didn't.

I'm trying to think--have I become insensitive to the fact that I most likely won't see a majority of these people later in life? To me, it's kinda like breakin up. For a split second you think, 'What was the point of even becoming friends if we probably won't even have an effect on each other later in life?' What's the point of "the hug" at the ending chapter of a friendship and those awkward few minutes of superficial conversation you have to make before the other person leaves for a few years....maybe a few decades? But then I thought, That's so neo-retarded.

What would garlic be like if it didn't coat your breath in a stinkish pungency? What kind of kid learns to ride a bike without falling and discovering that pavement really DOES leave a mark? And who the CRAP doesn't know Vanilla Ice's hit song by heart? See. We all learn from mistakes (or experience rather), and I think my problem is that I want the results now. I want to know WHAT it is I learned from being friends with so-and-so right this very second, or what kind of character traits have I absorbed in the past few years? My apathy about leaving people probably stems from that, but it wouldn't surprise me if it leaves the other person a little upset or confused. In fact, having this stupid "moving on" thing down to a T...is my first mistake. Because I don't have it down to a T--at all. I just think I do.

You know what's going to happen.

It's going to be 10:30pm on August 24th (the night before school starts), I'll cuddle up in my starchy new sheets, and smash my face in my pillow to make myself try to sleep. And then once I stop attempting that for about 10 minutes, I'll sit up in my room and realize that my friends aren't here. The friends I had for two years in Geneseo aren't around to cringe and laugh at the word "moist" for 20 minutes. I don't have the luxury of messaging Samantha a nice text and knowing she's only 15 minutes away. See, I'll appreciate the short distance between her house and mine now, once I'm sitting at my computer and 4 hours away from all of them.

The gradual stages of distancing myself from the people that mean the most to me has been going on my entire life.

When I was a baby, my mom tended to my every whimper and giggle. I was vulnerable to the outside world and totally oblivious, at the same time, to the dangers of it. When I was a toddler, my mom gave me the responsibility of not falling out of my bed since I wasn't in a crib anymore--I accomplished the task with flying colors. When I wasn't ten yet, I'd implore my mom to "stay with me until I go to sleep. I don't want anyone to get me." There was enough light coming from the doorway for me to see her slowly smile as her response. And she waited until my heartbeat softened, until the drool slowly eked from my mouth. She was my protector.

But I soon could go to bed without my mother waiting at my bedside. Instead I'd run to hers. In the middle of the night. Because I threw up all over the bed. And peed too. "I peed because I threw up, ma. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." It's still a distinct memory. Eventually, I learned to control the inner workings if my body's urinary and digestive systems, and I suddenly had no need to disrupt my mom's sleep.

...until I was a teenager.
Yeah, that changed my life AND hers too.

Mom? Mom. I'm just telling you that I'm home.
--scratchy voice--"Zak? Or Nick?"
It's Zak, Ma.
"Zak, what time is it?"
--eyes widen as I quickly turn the clock backwards, which revealed 2:38am--
It's like...12:30.
"Oh, ok. Well, get some rest. Ga'night Zak."
Ok, ga'night, love ya.
--mumbled 'love you too' response from mom's blankets--

I even remember her coming into the computer room and finding me sprawled out onto the floor, with no blankets or pillows, and putting her hand in front of my face to see if I was still breathing. That, right there, is caring.

Last night I came into my mom's room and woke her up at about 3:10am, shaking her a little softly. She immediately roused (cause my mom seriously sleeps like a feather...if they were to sleep, or whatever), and scratchily said, "Hey Zak, what's goin' on." As if she were telling me and not asking. "I just wanted to come in and say Goodnight. Ya know, there aren't going to be many more times where I get to say Ga'night to you." The light from the doorway lit her face, revealing her closed eyes and barely moving lips to reply, "I know. You're going to college and stuff---". Well, yeah, I knew I was going to college and stuff, but...I didn't, like, KNOW how it would feel and all. I started mulling over in my mind all the things that wouldn't be the same, even after I left. A lot of sad things. A lot of...bad things, hehe. And of course, many fun things. But in the middle of reminiscing about my past ridiculous conversations, the sound of my mom's patterned breathing interrupted the silence of my racing thoughts. She looked so beautiful when she slept. I mean, yeah, it's my mom, but the beauty of her actions has a face, a look about her--a smell even. And all those things together signify the importance of her character. The importance she ALONE has had on my life.

She protected me.
She watched over me.
She helped me grow, to mature.
She knows me better than I will ever know myself.
She knows how much butter I put on my bread, why I put distances in certain friendships, how much music means to me.
She understands the very thoughts she essentially made.

But this time, it was my turn to wait in the dark, to watch over her, to measure the intake of her breaths while she slept, to sit there and think how much she means to me, to wait for what seemed like hours, to have so much time to think about how important she really is to me.

It was my turn.