The Lingering Pain of Not-Goodbye
From Last Century
I stood paralyzed in the front doorway watching my best friend, Robin, and her parents pack their sedan, preparing to leave for the last time. I felt an icky pushing in my chest.
There was a very strict rule in my household about Sunday mornings. DO NOT GO OUTSIDE or be seen. Because people go to church on Sunday mornings, and we didn’t. Who wants to take 7 children to church?
Everything in me wanted to bolt out of my house and run to her driveway. And help put her things in the car.
I wanted to hug her.
Nobody ever hugged anyone. No one ever hugged me.
The previous week I had turned 10 years old and finished 4th grade.
My father was a colonel in the US Army. We were stationed in Frankfurt, Germany.
My irrational fear of my father’s potentially violent reaction to me racing across the street for a proper best friend goodbye overpowered my intense desire to spend those last few minutes with her.
I was afraid my father would grab me and start hitting me in front of Col. Wall and Mrs. Wall and Robin.
I was reduced to watching from our front door. Robin waved wildly from the backseat as they pulled away for the last time. They moved…
