I have never been good at saying goodbye. Most of the time, goodbye sneaks up behind me, whispers its arrival and inevitably surprises me into speechlessness.
After the initial shock, the words that do come out are never right. They seem to hold less meaning, not capture exactly what you are feeling and leave you with a vague sentiment of dissatisfaction.
But words are all you and I have shared in these past blissful months. Words that are sometimes imperfect and sometimes just right. Sentences made of trivialities and comments brimming with emotion. Column after column, you and I have become unknowingly acquainted.
Have you thought about why that happens? How it is possible to connect, think about and even grow fond of static text: small letters, unblinking, on a page? It almost sounds unhealthy to lose ourselves in a person’s mind. But it’s also fantastic.
From the start, writing has never ceased to amaze me. Now at the end of our journey, I find my wonder augmented in ways I never thought possible.
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What started as a deeply personal pastime ended with a touching, "I read what you wrote last night." I count myself lucky to have had an audience at such an early age, and cannot thank the Post-Bulletin for the opportunity enough.
As it often happens, we part by fate, recently added zodiac signs, or simply because it’s time. My end destination, at least temporarily, is Arizona: the Grand Canyon State. It’s the pull of a new job for my dad, and a new experience for my family and me.
My next stop, for four years, will be New York City, but that’s another story.
And so this is it. I hope to have brought insight, laughter and even skeptical head-shakes to your daily life.
What more could I ask for than to know you enjoyed reading what I wrote? From my part, it’s enough to realize that you have changed my course, and written indelibly on blank pages I have yet to touch. It’s enough for me to know that my time as one of your writers has been so good, I don't really have any words for it.
