The only time my car is on the back of a flatbed is when I run it into something

Today I was driving down the road, and something caught my eye. Maybe it was the flash of green. Maybe it was the shape of the Boston Red Sox "B". Whatever it was, I did a double take. This is a small island. I shouldn't have been so surprised.

It was exactly what I thought it was.

A few cars ahead of me, on the back of a flatbed was a truck. My friend's truck. It was on it's way to the port, to be shipped back to the mainland.

They will follow that truck back to the mainland on Thursday. 3 more days.

I live in a place where it is not at all unusual for people to leave. People move away all the time. People who are born here, who have their entire family here, who have never left the island,  move away all the time. They move because it is too expensive, or too stifling. They move in search of opportunities, bigger houses, better schools, to get off the rock, to get away from someone or to be closer to someone.

They leave. And they don't come back. It's not unusual, but it doesn't make it easier. This is just not easy. Even though I knew it was coming.

So today, when I saw that truck, on the back of that flatbed, headed for the harbor, I hurt. It hurt my heart to see that rear window driving away for the last time. I know we are going to see them again on the mainland, I know it. I do. In just a few weeks, as a matter of fact. We're easing the kids into the idea of being apart. We're easing ourselves into it, too. One last 4th of July birthday explosive-laden celebration.

But god knows when I'll see the back of their truck again, driving away down the road, with my friends family inside, after celebrating a holiday, or just hanging out around the house for a while.
Fuck.
I don't really feel like writing today.
Maybe tomorrow.