The Charleston Beat

An era ended today. The next chapter of life was forced upon me.  The rhythm has changed to an inconsistent beat, one that at the moment is slow and somber, but still rings with the great possibility of change that will come at an unpredictable time.

It's not that I was completely taken aback when the last batch of the 43A Girls left Charleston today. I knew this day was coming-I've known it would come since the moment I started college, and was even more aware when our last year together began back in August. It's been especially looming this past semester,  emotion-stirring since mid-February (because St. Valentine's Day gets the best of us), and dreaded since the calendar struck the 1st of May, the beginning of the month that has taken away my loves.

This morning was spent packing away the last pieces of the house which at one point (not too long ago at all) were part of a conglomeration of 3 other women's light fixtures, dishes, bed frames, coat hangers, bicycles and a few knickknacks that independently help little meaning, but when stuffed together in the same 1 story, 4 bedroom apartment 3 years ago made their house a home. But much more importantly than the things inside, the women who inhabited their precious, chic and quintessential college apartment made their home into one that undoubtably no past resident had even seriously considered creating. Maybe that's me being biased, but other friends, and even just acquaintances, of these women can attest to their unaltered hospitality, warm generosity, and devoted friendship to many in their community, but especially to one another. Their home was a place of gathering comfortably, because that's the only way the 5 wanted it.

For me, 43A will be more of a home than any other dwelling I've occupied here in Charleston. That's because for the past 3 years it's been a gathering post, a sports arena, a pit stop, a restaurant, a book club (ahem, excuse me, literary society), a movie theatre, or simply a refuge when I needed a breath of fresh air. And most recently, a wailing wall.

Charleston now has a missing piece. But remember, Shel tells us that we can't be completely full all the time. On the contrary, as much as we have searched so long for whatever our piece is that we need in order to roll smoothly and contently, sometimes it's best to let it go and move along in search of what's to come next, whatever that may be. And so it is, and so I did. After shoving the last box-o-shoes between the rarely used tennis racket and well-rusted beach chair, shutting trunks, locking doors, and shedding tears of goodbye forever to the house (but only "toodle-oo" to friends), I waved the Girls farewell into their cars and down the street as they pulled away from 43A for the last time. Even as they curved around the street I continued to wave, unable to accept the looming slowing rhythm, but the Girls didn't see. I reluctantly turned on my heels away from them and the house, which is now simply a house and no longer a home. Strolling back down the street towards my own home, hands in pockets and still quite dewey-eyed, I left a piece of me and rolled along, lightened by a now missing piece, but largely heavy hearted.

Charleston's taught us all much about one-way streets, but never before today was the lesson made a metaphor for the direction of life. As I took my last walk home the two blocks from 43A to 68B, I never turned back but moved only in the arrow's suggested direction.