Goodbye

The Uber’s been ordered. He’s standing just inside the door because it’s too cold and rainy to wait outside. He’s left the porch light on, and the big suitcase is out front just so they know they have the right house.

He’s opened the app again to check the flight status. It still shows on time. Just as it did ten minutes ago. And ten minutes before that. And on the many occasions he checked over coffee. And whenever he woke up in the night, too many times to count.

He’s worried the flight’s been delayed, I expect, or cancelled outright. Or maybe he’s worried it won’t be. No, I doubt that. I can tell it gives him some small amount of relief, seeing those two oversized words in green: ON TIME.

Knowing him as I do, those words are more than just a status. They’re an antidote for all the misgivings and hesitations he’s been navigating for a while now. The ones he’s still feeling, I expect.

His ride is ten minutes away, but he’s taken off his shoes. What’s he doing? It’s okay. Just one last look around, it seems, though there isn’t all that much left to see. The front room and hallway are all but empty now.

One of our wedding photos is still there on the living room side table. It’s the one in the oversized frame, taken at the reception dinner of us cutting the cake. The one where we’re looking at one another with those silly grins that his mother loved so much.

It was never one of his favourites. Nor mine for that matter. It’s still half-hidden behind the spider plant I always forgot to water. Whatever, it served its purpose.

The coffee table still contains remnants of the get-together they held after the service two days ago. There are half-drunk glasses of wine, and dirty plates, some with little triangle sandwiches of devilled ham too stale to be eaten.

One of our grandson’s toys is underneath the chair in the corner. It’s one of those little electric pets that I would have found when I swept. No matter. Someone will find it.

I watch as he walks to the bathroom. It’s empty, but he goes through the drawers anyway, just to be sure, I guess. He looks up, studying his reflection. How many times had we fought over that mirror while we scrambled to get ready for work?

I always took too long and hogged the space in front. But how else can you do makeup? Sometimes he’d give up and storm off to the kitchen to shave over the sink, and more often than not a little tuft of beard would show below his lower lip and would stay there for the rest of the day and I’d tease him about it until he finally got rid of it. He’s clean-shaven this morning. No tufts. Good.

It’s a lot to process. It’s only been a little over a month. I didn’t expect things to happen the way they did, and I’m sure it’s no different for him.

The other rooms are all empty, even the one that was halfway converted to an office. There’s just the filing cabinet now, with papers that always seemed too important to throw out. None of which I can remember. It’s staying too, it seems. Just as well.

The bedroom still contains a number of the small things that made it ours. Like the side table and lamp we bought on sale, which he liked and I finally managed to get used to. Inside the drawers on my bedside table are a handful of the small vestiges of our life together. Like the wallet-sized photos of the children (they’ll always be my children), copies of which are already packed.

He’s gone back to the living room, to collect the dirty glasses and plates and take them to the kitchen. Good man. It would be nice if he could wash them, too, and put them away. But there’s no time for that now, I expect.

He’s back at the front door. He’s lugged the suitcase inside to recheck the contents. I can see the bright blue pair of casual walking shoes packed to one side. The thick white rubber soles, never formal enough for work and not suitable for the gym. He’ll be wearing them now, though, quite a bit I expect. Good.

He’s packed a half-dozen pullover shirts, all recently bought, chosen for comfort over style. Along with my favourite sweaters and hoodies of his. Pants. Too many pairs, maybe. But he always waits too long to do a wash so I guess it makes sense.

He sets everything back inside with care, perhaps reflecting on what could be missing, and whether anything else is worthy of the small space that’s left. There are things of ours that would fit. Like that favourite mug of mine we used to fight over. But that too, appears to be staying.

Whatever’s not coming has already been sent. Or tossed. Or left for the kids to pick through.

There are headlights at the top of the street now. The driver is arriving, his app says. Don’t forget your carry-on, I think to myself, and am relieved to see him go and grab it. Good. That would be no small crisis, going without his all-important cliff bars, not to mention his tablet and chargers.

He’s gone outside, but the door is still open and I can see the car pulling into the drive. He’s giving the driver a wave. I can’t help but wonder if he’s left the door open for some reason, that he’s coming back in again.

But then I watch him bend to collect the backpack and put it over his shoulder. The driver gets out and comes to help with the suitcase. Good.

Then he’s back on the porch again, reaching for the handle. Good. I look away. I don’t need to see the door to know it’s closed.