D. left for California today. I imagine she’s there by now, after a night without sleep and a very long flight. I hope she’s sleeping as I write this.
We had planned to get together for a drink last night, which almost certainly would have led to a bout of furious chain-smoking; several impassioned rants about politics, grad school, and/or relationships; and at least one of her legendary drive-thru tarot readings. What it likely would not have occasioned was a proper goodbye, which I suspect she would have deftly avoided by ducking into a cab and speeding away.
As bad luck would have it, we didn’t get to have that last drink. Instead, D. spent her last night in Montreal cleaning, packing, and dragging garbage bags down four flights of stairs to her building’s dumpster, which she was still doing when I called her at three ‘o clock in the morning. We talked for a little while and I wished her luck, but we still didn’t say goodbye. When I woke up today, I found the email she had sent me at 5:03 AM. It consisted mostly of swearing.
As she has written about extensively in her blog, D. did not have an easy time of it in Montreal, and only weeks before leaving the city she succumbed to depression. I know that she’ll be okay but I worry about her just the same, in the way that one does with people who don’t like to be worried about: that is, gingerly, and never without a sense of humour.
When we hung out last weekend, I gave D. a copy of Arcade Fire’s Funeral, which I hope, eventually, will remind her of the good things about her time here, even if a far greater number of things sucked ass. Listen to it loud, D., and call me when you can.