Eight Weeks To Go

            Nearly a year ago, I decided I wanted to move to England. After years of puttering around my life, chasing this whim and then that one, I decided that it was time for me to really commit myself to something – so, with typical Liz all-or-nothing gusto, I committed myself to changing everything about my life. I chose a university and applied as discreetly as I could; my mother had just had fairly major surgery and I didn’t want to add anything to my family’s plate. When my offer of a place at Middlesex University finally came in October of last year, I was over the moon. I knew that the transition would be a huge one – I’d have to start saying “trousers” instead of “pants,” for a start, and I’d need to brush up on my queuing skills. I’d also have to say goodbye to my parents, friends and my beloved dog, sell off most of my possessions and move across more than two thousand miles from Cleveland, Ohio, to London, but let’s focus on the important stuff – it’s the queuing and the trousers, right?

            When I was accepted into university, it seemed like an eternity until the day I’d leave. Suddenly, that day is eight weeks away. The excitement is so acute I can feel it crackle like electricity in my throat, but the anxiety is an equally palpable lump in my chest.

            I live with my mother at the moment. We have a complicated relationship, but then we’re both complicated women. “Complicated” here is a descriptor that covers a multiple of sins, but essentially we’re both opinionated, deeply stubborn, and the more-or-less delightful kind of neurotic. Sometimes I can’t wait to put an ocean between us; sometimes I don’t know what I’ll do without her in the next room.

            She and I went with a friend of ours to hear the Cleveland Orchestra at their summer home tonight – it’s a vast open-air amphitheatre sent into a hill, and we brought a picnic and sat on the lawn and listened to Mozart as the stars came out. I put my head in my mother’s lap as the orchestra played the overture to The Abduction From The Seraglio.  That was the first opera my mom ever took me to see, nearly two whole decades ago. I wish I could say something deep and wise about the cyclical nature of life, but all I can think about is how much I’ll miss my mother, and how grateful I am that she has always allowed me to be me.