4:56am

I walk outside, the world cold and dark. Sliding into the car, I shiver and dig my hands deeper into the pockets of my sweatshirt. The trunk door closes with a shudder that trembles throughout the car. We back out of the drive way; Alina rolls down her window and waves to my mother standing outside the house. The knowledge that the time is coming lurks inside of all of us, I know, but we chit-chat anyway. And then, shining and bright, the lights of the airport appear. We haul Alina's luggage out of the car and onto the curb, and I stand there with her, talking, while Jeremiah adjusts some straps and Dad parks. The rest was a bit of a blur. Check in. Up the stairs. Security. Hugging close, not wanting the moment to end, willing myself not to cry. I love you, I'll miss you. Walking away, turning around for one last wave, one last glimpse. And then it's over, she's gone.
I hate goodbyes. 


The reminiscing, remembering of our adventures are the one of the things that make our separation bearable, though, like the trip to the lake a few weeks ago.

On that warm afternoon at the end of September, I pulled out the quilt and gave it a firm shake, and watched it ripple down to the grass. After changing into shorts and moving the blanket into the shade, I lay down next to my sisters. Alina and MeMe were immersed in their books, Lilly nestled between them. On my back, I watched the clouds float by, lazy with the breeze. My brother fished in the lake, while the soft murmur of my parent's conversation carried from behind the reeds. And as I lay there, an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment came over me. It was one of those moments where everything seems right and you don't want to be anywhere but the present. It lasted for the rest of our time at the lake, that euphoria. It's a time I don't ever want to forget.

Alina left this morning. Three weeks wasn't long enough, but I'm thankful for having time at all. Having family strewn across the globe is hard. Goodbyes come far too quickly and the time in between visits is far too long. There is a pang of envy and longing, I have to admit, when friends talk animatedly about how they met grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles for Sunday lunch, or how their all their family lives nearby. It's hard, I'm not going to lie. But, just as in every circumstance, there's a grain of good in everything. In living with this kind of arrangement, I cherish my family that much more, and relish each moment I do get to spend with them. And the memories -- oh, the memories we made while she was here. They make everything better.

What are some moments you never want to forget? I'd so love to hear.