The Art of Leaving

I am practicing the art of leaving. Imagining that I am looking at things for the last time and then turning away.

Usually, in life, you never know when the last time you do something will be. Is this the last time? The next to last time? I remember walking somewhere with my younger son who, when he was a certain age, would walk with his hand on my shoulder, I think because he wanted to be connected to me but felt too old to hold hands. I remember thinking this could be the last time Joe walks with his hand on my shoulder. And there was a last time, but I don’t remember it.

Today, I walked with the same son who is now much older than when he kept his hand on my shoulder. We hiked to a lighthouse on a remote point on Lake Superior, a not far hike but far enough to sweat and be very glad to see the white spire of the lighthouse rising from the trees. On the way there and back, Joe kept a running commentary on his life, gave opinions, chatted about the scenery, looked this way and that for woodland creatures that might surprise us.

Every once in a while, to make a point, he’d touch me lightly on my shoulder and say, “And, another thing, Ma” and then continue with his conversation. Sometimes, I’d stop to catch my breath and he’d make speed walking gestures with his arms and I realize his conversation was intended to distract me from how far the hike felt. It wasn’t far, it just felt that way.

So then, of course, I thought, this could be the last time we take a walk like this, the two of us in the woods. I decided to feel okay about that. The sky was blue, the trees lush, Lake Superior glittered to the side, it could not have been more beautiful. I could keep that picture and then leave. I could leave it. Some time, someday has to be the last.

It could be the last time – the walk, the hand on the shoulder, the words, all the words – but it might not be. When it is, though, I will be ready. I’m practicing the art of leaving and practice makes perfect.