I meant to write this post earlier, but my brain was packed in the silverware box and might not survive the knives. I am currently operating on PCS-backup-brain, and nothing I say for the next six months can or should be used against me. I have a solid insanity defense prepared.
We’ve been detached from Okinawa for a week now and here’s how the detachment process looks in the moment: After weeks of purging and grouping like items to make sure things that actually go together get packed together, pack out day arrives. I blink and open my eyes to the horror of reality: the box in front of me has a non-standard size glass jar missing its lid, and it is stuffed with twelve socks–none of them match. Nestled next to the jar is my grandmother’s sugar bowl wrapped in a SpongeBob towel I have never seen before today. A plastic shower caddy is awkwardly packed on top and a half-empty roll of toilet paper is stuffed in the empty space. There are six dice and two cast iron game pieces: one miniature candlestick from Clue and the other a miniature wheelbarrow from Monopoly. There are fourteen refrigerator magnets and a bungee cord. The box is topped with three mismatched dish towels, a roll of fishing line, and a high school yearbook.
The rest of the boxes are packed, so there is no way to sort these things into their places. I could toss the box entirely, but then I’d lose the sugar dish and the yearbook, in addition to adding to the landfill problems. The box takes on too much significance as I wonder how I have spent my life when I cannot keep even game pieces together or avoid inadvertently owning a SpongeBob towel.
None of this matters of course. It’s just a box full of things that were almost left behind. But it induces a panic that I haven’t seen/done/been all I wanted to see/do/be while we were here. The plane comes anyway. I have to get on clutching the suitcase containing the only clothes I might have for the next month (longer if we get to experience the fun of lost shipments and such).
Detaching feels like leaving an arm behind. I miss it, but the world hurtles forward ahead of me and I can’t make it stop. We’ve said all the goodbyes, attended all the farewell events, given away all the plastic wrap and half-empty-bottles of spray paint.
There is the tiniest glimmer of relief getting on the plane—knowing there’s no way back. It’s mixed with a good measure of anticipation to see family and friends we have missed. But I always fight the fatigue and numbness in this stage. It will get better. Good things are coming—I know they are, but I also know I need to let grief do its work too. So we’ll sleep, watch too many movies, pray, laugh at inappropriate things, and try to be gentle to ourselves and others. Farewell Okinawa!