I began by thinking of endings. Time speeds up as the chapter draws to a close, and I feel it strongly every day — in the days before the marathon, in the hours of the work day as the clock ticks on by. Time has new meaning when it is running out.
The end of my time in this country is rapidly approaching. Cars drive faster, and the weather turns sooner. In hours, there will be snow, and I have no idea how when it was only yesterday that the first fall leaves began to blanket the parks in my mind.
The momentum stops me thinking too much about the change, what the day will be like when I lock the apartment door for the last time, how I will carry the over-large suitcases to the airport. I am far too behind on the logistical burdens I need to address — where is that credit card I opened my first week here? Can I pack up the last of the summer dresses? Instead I carry on the motions as though everything is as before, and the clock that careens towards my final days is only a mirage.
The ending is strongest in my head, certainly. I think not of the start of the next chapter, waking up to a quiet London Sunday, or running on the Thames in a milder winter than the ones in New York. I do not imagine the childlike excitement I am sure I will feel as the coming adventures unfold.
But the end is marked by a beginning, and I must remember this. There is much to be left behind. But there is an abudance to look forward to, and it is waiting.
