I figure we mourn the ends of things. Graduation, as much of a celebration as it is, is also a mourning period. Having others around us who shared that time allows us to talk about what once was, and will be, in that tiny transitory moment of “now” that is the between times.

I wanted Honey to bring home a tiny kindergarten chair as a memento. She said she’d bring home the stuffed bear that was the bathroom buddy—the bathroom pass for the little ones— but I passed on that opportunity.

Many people drink, or dance, or both—when they leave jobs, just like many cultures do at funerals. Of course, barbeques are not usually a part of funerals. Nor are shots of whiskey or softball games. But the similarities do exist. We move on.

I had to throw away eight years of projects students have turned in which adorned my classroom walls. Some of them required tens of hours of effort. I suppose they were never mine to keep anyway. And, of course, many of them had written on the back, in tiny writing, “Thank you, Varvel, for ruining my Winter Break. I hate you.”

We graduated. Oddly, nobody ever every says, “Dear God, why would you do that?” to a high school or collegiate alum. Yes, we are leaving good jobs for an adventure. And yes, we are leaving great friends and colleagues. And yes, we are taking the cats with us. Maybe Toulouse and Kireina can learn Bosnian for “kibbles.”

Oddly, leaving does not mean the end of responsibility. Honey’s school called about the taxes owed for Parent/Teacher Organization fundraising. She is currently delving into the paperwork necessary with gusto.

The ending of things needs time. I left a job of eight years. Honey of three years. How do we thank each individual who influenced us along the journey? In all truth, that would be nearly impossible. So instead we will lavish attention on the cats, cull the accumulation of a lifetime of empty spaghetti jars and clothes (do I really need six pairs of jeans, three of which have holes in the knees and crotch?), store the books, and head out in August.

This sorting is a mourning period for all the things we don’t really need in our lives. I will store the swords, Honey will pack up her cookie jars, and we have to remember that the things we keep are the memories of what we have experienced and lessons learned.

Lesson one: kindergarteners really want to see what will happen when fifteen thousand paper towels are packed into a toilet.
Lesson two: never give a project to teenagers involving sharp objects on Valentine’s day after 8 hours of candy induced psychosis.
Lesson three: kindergarteners who cuss all the time might have mental issues, or they may just have learned it all at home.
Lesson four: karaoke as Michael Jackson in front of 400 people really gets your name out.

So it is a time of mourning. Mourning those 4:45 mornings. Those hour long drives to and from school in the winter. Grading on the weekends. Cutting out laminated bugs in the evenings.

I finished teaching at the Art Institute on the weekends. That was another type of ending.

Leaving a job where the students see me as the expert and thank me for taking the time to help them? I will miss the smell of the building the most- it is as if creativity has a scent and the walls are permeated with vibrancy.

There are many things we will miss, and the students and staff we connected with are the hardest to leave. I figure there are little disconnected pieces of everyone, still laughing, still complaining about the homework, still excited about first dates and first kisses, all wandering around somewhere in my psyche. Honey feels the same way. If aliens kidnap us and investigate our memories, we probably have a good collection of contemporary life in America.

But there is a road out there, and while I don’t get to bring a tiny chair with me, marked with crayon and glue, we get the chance to poke our heads into new cultures. And that is enough.