LIVING IN FRANCE: Why are Family Visits So Bittersweet?
In a couple of days, I will drop my daughter and her husband off at the train station in Beziers. They will take the train to Barcelona and from there, fly back to the States.
I will cry, I’m sure. I cried when they arrived. I hadn’t seen them for more than three years. We clung together, as though we’d never voluntarily part again.
But soon they’ll be gone. I hope it won’t be three years before I see them again. We assure ourselves it won’t be. But as I write this, I feel strange and unsettled.
On the verge of tears.
Part of it is because they’re leaving. There is always that weird, superstitious sort of fear . . .will this be the last . . . and then, too horrible to contemplate, the thought is banished.
I remind myself that it was my choice to move to another country, another continent. I trot out all the things that make me happy living in this foreign country so far away from those I love.
I tell myself I’m just tired, which is true. We’ve walked and walked, talked and laughed. Ate too much, drank too much. Maybe that’s it, I don’t know. The over indulgences. Too much food of the wrong type, too much wine because . . well, it’s France and the wine is delicious.
Just too much. Of everything.
Now my emotional bucket feels empty, drained.
I can only replenish it by being alone again. A few days of not talking, not remembering, not trying to interpret anyone’s mood or reaction. Did they enjoy this? Should I have said that? Is he just being polite? On and on. I exhaust myself.
I feel like an overstimulated child
Yesterday, I fell and hit my head. Drink was not to blame, too early for the evening glass. I’d just stood up to get something, can’t even remember what. I caught the back of a stool; it swivelled and I fell. The descent seemed to last forever. A slow-motion tumble that I tried at various points to stop. Finally, my head hit the floor. Blood streamed down my forehead, through my fingers.
No lasting damage, but today I felt shaky and somehow unsure of myself. Scared I’d fall again. What if I’d broken my hip? That sort of thing happens at my age and there are those stories we’ve all heard.
She was fine, fine. Full of life, adventurous and then she had a fall . . .
I push that thought to the back of my mind. I give myself a pep talk.
Look, today you walked all over Marseille. You climbed hills, climbed numerous flights of stairs. You kept up a good pace. Age has nothing to do with it.
I think I’m just tired. Drained.
So I cry as I write. And think of goodbyes at the railway station. And cry some more. It’s exhaustion. I’ll be fine. Once the bucket is full again.
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