Mixed Signals

Moving Day

I missed it.

I missed it already and I hadn't even left.

The fog rolling in across the bay at sunset, it's damp fingers leaving dew on everything it touches. The smell of the beach at night, hearing the waves lap against the shore persistently. A sound that means permanence. Assurance. But things change.

Growing up on the Southern Oregon coast doesn't sound like it would give you much experience, but you learn independence. Now that I was 23, I figured it was time to take my hiatus and go out in the world; prove I could.

"Prove what?" You ask.

I can't quite tell you.

But I was going to do it.

"Gemma! We need to go!" My best friend Elle yelled up the stairs of my house. I was standing in my childhood room, most of my furniture and pictures gone. The stark white walls, once covered in vibrant memories of days long gone, now stared at me blankly, as if all those memories had been wiped.

But they were still there. Not physically. Technically they were in London already. Like all of my other things that I hold dear, other than my family. Breathing in deeply, as if saying goodbye, I picked up my carry on and closed my eyes, savoring the final moments before I embarked on my journey.

It would be two years before I return.

I closed my door, taking one final glance at the airy space. I reasoned that this is what I needed to do as I walked down the stairs. Coaching myself as I made my way through my house, I repeated I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry, as my steps were counted down in my mind.

My parents stood at the door, misty-eyed and smiling wanly. Warm embraces were exchanged, a few tears shed, and I was on my way. Elle was coming with me but leaving after six months. I was moving to London to find myself and write but I needed someone to help me transition.

My life was changing so completely and fully. I was scared and unsure of the future, which is something I'd never felt before. I've always been so sure. So prepared.

The four hour drive to Portland passed quickly and I think I'm going to vomit. We stepped into the airport, checked in, and waited in our terminal. Our flight arrives in an hour. I still think I'm going to vomit.

Nerves sets my stomach in rolling, gurgling knots and butterflies tickle my palms excitedly.

Entirely too soon, we boarded the plane.

I was too afraid to sleep. Too nervous. I was awake the majority of the flight, nodding off here and there, only to snap awake when I suddenly re-remembered that I was going to London. Elle had passed out beside me.

I wished I weren't as scared as I was.

But life was changing. It's justified.