Happy Anniversary

I came to work today and found my boss had sent me an e-card. I assumed it was a late birthday card, but when I opened it, the words "Happy Anniversary" danced across the screen. Huh? It turns out that I have been at my job one year as of yesterday. This has been a year of so many firsts. Some of the firsts I planned for wonderfully- like my first non-wedding anniversary that I spent mountain biking and hiking with my sisters. We spoiled ourselves with a condo with a hot tub in the mountains. Leah spoiled me with an un-wedding ring, and I found myself empowered and feeling strong. Other firsts, I didn't realize I needed to prepare for. Like my first divorced Halloween. Halloween doesn't mean much to me. I can't even remember the last time I did anything for Halloween, and yet, I found myself thinking about the Israeli children I would never have, and somehow, going home to an empty, dark house, took on a weight it hadn't had before. I found myself in tears on every major holiday this last year.

Even Y's birthday- when I felt thrilled and happy to be in Utah and working, driving my own car, and looking for my own place. I felt so good I bought myself champagne and flowers. "See," I said to myself. "I don't need anyone to take care of me. I can spoil myself!" I showed up at Abbie's house, where I was living at the time. After a few hours I was drunk and sobbing to Abbie in the dark backyard. That was when I decided divorce and alcohol were a poor combination. It was also a night I learned again that I desperately needed people and I was lucky enough to have a friend who would sit and listen to me cry and a boy who would pick me up and hold me and tell me that this too was a normal part of divorce sometimes. It wasn't just me.

On Valentine's day I emailed Abbie, " This is it. This is my last first. I made it through the first Christmas, the first New year's, the first everything. I never have to do any of it again." But I was wrong. As my birthday approached, I realized that this was truly the last first. For my birthday last year, I was with my Israeli family. Orna called me one day before I was leaving the country and said, "Well, this is uncomfortable, but I wanted to ask you if/how you wanted to say goodbye to everyone before you go. Do you want Oded and I to go with you to everyone's houses? Should we gather everyone together for a dinner? Please tell us what you want." I wanted to go say goodbye to everyone individually, but with finishing up my job, packing up my possessions, and the countless tiny tasks that accompany any relocation, let alone an international one, I ran out of time.

Orna solved the problem by throwing me a birthday party and inviting the immediate family, as well as aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. Here, in one room, gathered some of the people I love the most in this world. They brought gifts- a cookbook of family recipes in Yiddish and Hebrew, an article of clothing designed by an aunt, perfume from my sisters. The atmosphere was a little awkward, it's true, and Yaron broke down crying when he spoke about how much Grandpa had learned to love me before he passed away. I cried a little too, but I loved that the family was willing to say, "Look, this is a little unusual, a little uncomfortable, and yet...would we not say good-bye? Would we miss the chance for a few more hugs and a few more toasts?"

This month, on the anniversary of that party, I called my in-laws. "Unbelievable!" Oded said. "Just this afternoon Orna said, 'I need to talk to Linsey today. I'll call her when the guests leave.' Well, the guests are still here, so can we call you back?"

When they did call back I reminded Orna that it was the anniversary of my goodbye party. "Perhaps I knew that on some level," she said, "and that is why I felt I had to call. It feels like so much longer than a year that you have been gone. We miss you so much, it seems like it has already been so much longer."

I don't want it to seem longer. I want it to seem like I just barely left. That there is some element of me still walking down the boardwalk in Tel Aviv and slipping off my shoes to walk through the sand and touch the water. I want there to be some part of me sitting in cafes, working in my office, eating dinner with the family, walking in Jerusalem. At the same time, there are times when I hear a loud crash and don't jump, when I watch the news and don't feel sick, when I forget to watch the news, when an office conflict is quickly and quietly resolved, when the sight of the mountains pink with the sunset takes my breath away and I am relieved that I am living here and now and it seems like so much more than year since I moved away.