I've been thinking lot about family, about connection, love and loss. I'm a migrant, an immigrant, with at least two homes. The pandemic has made these two homes further apart. In this Australian home over the sixteen years, I've woven a friend family; strong and nurturing - mostly female - connections. We hold each other up, pull each other out, laugh and cry and do it all again.
The week my dear dear friend is leaving me. But that's me being selfish. She's going home, home to her first home, to be surrounded by blood family and the laugher of her grandsons (possibly crying too, but that's part of the wonder of children).
We've drank an ocean of wine together, and a galaxy of coffee. A library of messages have passed between us. We've called each other in the midst of panic attacks, we've given each other advice, told each other off, looked after each other's kids. Gone on road trips, and weekends away, had sleepovers. We've baked on beaches and frozen in parks, been on so many adventures.
She was there in the hospital when I came around after my nose surgery. She's made me cakes, and pizzas and texmex and all sorts of deliciousness. She proofread tens of my essays and reports when I was studying.
She's incredibly clever and capable, stupidiously funny. A fixer, a problem solver. She always has my back.
I've been grieving for months, since she told me she was going. And in just a couple of days she'll be off. On that plane. In a different country with a different time zone.
I'm happy for her. It's the right move.
All of this is hard, it comes on the heels of me coming back from the first UK trip in 3 and half years, and the post trip blues.
It is hard, but I am lucky; lucky to have met her. I love her, shes family. And it's ok, she's going home.
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