From Unmarked Box to Unmarked Box

I'm spending my morning at my boyfriend's sweet little apartment on the outskirts of the city. It's in one of those rural little bubbles amidst concrete and stripmall—a vibrant thrum of greenspace, birdcall, tall flowering trees, climbing ivy, and garden beds tucked into the cultivated mind-numbing monotone of suburbia. I've been thinking, since yesterday, about Virginia, about picking up and starting a whole new life there, or anywhere, really—anywhere with rolling hills and lush greenery, anywhere I can put my hands in the dirt and my heart has room to unfurl.

Life is but a blink.

This weekend I lost my uncle unexpectedly, though it doesn't feel right to say it that way, to claim any rights to grieving. I didn't lose him like my cousins lost their father, like my father lost his brother. What I feel is but a sliver.

We spent the morning yesterday sharing stories of his life, of how he didn't waste his time here. He did a lot and he did it with gusto. He took pleasure in shaking people up a little, making them take themselves a little less seriously. Longtime friends joked that the classic Hank-ism was Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. My delicate sensibilities balked for a moment at that one (because sometimes, frankly, I can't) but only for a moment, because true enough, that just about covered it. He lived, and he didn't let anybody get in his way.

I need a little more of that in me.

So why not move to Virginia? Or France? Or anywhere else my heart calls out for? Why not stand in the middle of a crowd and make a fool of myself? Why not unabashedly break all the rules? Who cares about failure? Who cares if it all breaks down? If there's anything to be learned it's that it will... regardless.

I don't want to spend one more day in a dark room talking about what we're going to, worrying through all the details.

Here's our chance. Here's my chance.

Let's do it to honor Hank. Let's live.