She's not even going to say goodbye

This sucks.
She's not even going to say goodbye.
I know this already,
but I keep hoping for that phone to ring,
and every time it does,
my heart leaps
like one of Pavlov's dogs,
but it's not her.

Tomorrow she'll graduate,
and I won't even be there
to watch her walk across that stage.
She always did what was best for her,
and encouraged me to do what was best for me.
So I've decided not to wear myself out
spending her last weekend here
trying to get a goodbye,
a last hug,
some small piece of closure.

At Mom's birthday get-together,
everyone asks about her.
Even after I tell everyone
she's graduating and moving away tomorrow,
they continue to ask.
I feel like they're twisting the knife
that's already in my gut.
And I wish I could tell them how much pain I'm in,
how much she means to me.
I come home and cry.
I've been good for the last 24 hours.
I haven't whined or wept or been jealous
or felt sorry for myself...
But now I'm going to sit with this feeling,
let it be,
I won't run from it or ignore it
or distract myself
or numb myself.
After all, she was the one who allowed me to cry again,
allowed me to feel.
I try to let go of the pain of tomorrow
and the next day.
Maybe I will miss her then too.
Maybe the tears will come again,
just as hard and unexpected,
but that's not for me to deal with yet.

There are so many thing I want to say to her,
so many thing I need to hear her say.
The knowledge that none of this will come,
that there is no hope of it,
is hard to sit with.
Equally hard is listening to my yearnings,
my vain hope that she will call me late tonight
or on her way home tomorrow,
that she will stop by my apartment unexpectedly,
or leave me a voicemail,
or send me a letter
with some small scrap of closure,
some morsel of affection, wisdom, and reassurance,
some bit of hope.
I will allow myself to mourn for this a few moments longer,
but then I will move on with my night.
I will acknowledge this feeling if and when
it surfaces again.
I will honor it and give it room.
But I will not allow it to become unhealthy
or turn into despair
or paralyze me.

Goodbye, Liza. Goodbye.
I love you.
I know I'm not allowed to say the L-word in person,
but I can say it here.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Thank you.
I love you.
Goodbye.