Despite having lived in 11 cities, I've become worse at saying goodbye -- not better.
I've been blessed in every stay. Somehow I find folks who are willing to put up with my sense of humor, my lack of sartorial astuteness and my general personality.
As I've intimated the end is nigh in Bloomington, friends approach me and say goodbye. There are fewer hugs because of COVID yet the departure is more sincere. Much sobbing, though, on my end.
I think my inability at saying goodbye is rooted in aging and some (a little bit) emotional maturity.
Most of us, maybe just some of us, had plans to be great, which inevitably included a good-paying job, nice car, a beautiful house.
Then when you get older, particularly as that dream evades us, we understand it's family and friends who are the great gifts.
So now I get to move closer to family and friends and stay a journalist, a position I believe predestined for me. I'm pretty sure at age five, I told my mother her comments were on the record.
The official announcement of my move won't be until next Thursdays but I will tell you, faithful readers, I am happy and at peace.
I get on the road Monday to make my transition and will report from the road that night. Have a beautiful weekend.
So I wish unto you my brothers and sisters peace and joy.