The weeks recently gone by have been lovely. They have been busy and full of change. I’m due to leave the country in less than a month, that means I’m doing a lot of things for the final time. My final week at work this week. My parents’ final visit to Manchester. Staying at Alanna’s for the final time.
That all sounds very… final. I’m not dying. And I’ll most likely be returning to Manchester, so I’ll encounter all those things again. It’s just that I’ve been here for so long, it’s very odd to be leaving for somewhere new.
And these things that I do most weeks, but am now doing for the final time become defined because they are the last time. It makes them clear and instantly memorable. I would never before have considered them mundane or routine, but now they’re moments to hold onto.
Why is it that as soon as something stops taking place, it becomes nostalgic and romantic? Is it because things that you aren’t doing always seem more enticing? Or because you remember the golden memories more than the black ones?
A conversation for an afternoon at Jill’s.