Everything seemed a bit solemn, even things that had no real significance - the Boy propping his backpack up in the foyer like he'd done a hundred times before, removing our shoes so as not to get the ancient floor (even more) dirty- but I already felt ready to say goodbye. Inside The Boy's backpack were a drink apiece, to be sipped as we settled down on the floor of the apartment to give it a proper send-off. And I don't care if it was silly or sentimental; it was just what I needed.
I didn't really cry, just sighed a bit and maybe, MAYBE I misted up a little when I thought of never coming back. I called it a wake but The Boy disagreed.
"Either way, that's not true. Someone's moving in here, they'll make memories, the place lives on. And you're moving on, too. You're not dead, your stories will continue. It's not a goodbye. It's just the next step."