This is the weekend where your best friend moves a state away. She’s been day dreaming about palm trees and sunny skies and now she’s living with them outside of her window instead of just on the insides of her eyelids. She left you teary-eyed in the post office parking lot, but that’s okay. You’ve got to feel things sometimes, even if they sting. You’ve got to walk through the fire even if the heat fills your lungs and leaves your words quiet silhouettes; smoke signals. This is the weekend where your best friend gets married in her high heeled saddle shoes. And it’s been a weird couple of years—mostly rambling emails and a few fleeting moments that left themselves burned into the back of your eyelids, something raw and right. This is wishing you could be there, but knowing that you just can’t. This is the weekend where your best friends are swimming in sounds somewhere in Central Florida. They’re all high fives and stage dives and root beer and swimming holes. This is the weekend where a near-stranger you admire moves 3000 miles away and isn’t afraid. This is the weekend when you concede to the fact that you cannot always lace up the distance with good intentions. The weekend where you roll up your shirt-sleeves and unpack the trunk of your car into your new apartment. This is the weekend where you take all of those anxieties about this swift change that has been rolling into your veins, all of the unfamiliar steps you are about to take, and you revel in the fact that there is absolutely no place to go but forwards. And so you will.
