You put everything from your desk into one box. I thought it would need to be bigger. You had that job so long, and it all fits in a box you can carry with one arm.
You keep touching things. The stapler. The mug. The plant you forgot to water sometimes but it lived anyway. You are saying goodbye to a plant. I would have named it. Did you ever name it?
Everybody signed a card and you read it twice in the parking lot before you started the car. I saw you do that. You act like nobody sees.
Here is the thing I want to ask. You loved this. You used to come home and tell about the good days, the funny people, the time the whole thing almost broke and you fixed it. You did the thing you said you would do, the thing where you matter and people are glad you came in. I remember wanting that so bad.
So why are you crying like something bad happened?
I think it is because good was here, and now good is over, and both of those are true at once. Grown-ups know how to hold two things. I am still learning.
You are looking at the building from the car for a really long time.
Will there be another one? A place you love this much? I hope there is. I hope you find it faster than you think.
And when you do, water the plant. Every time.
Name it, too.