{"id":140462,"date":"2019-11-01T09:00:08","date_gmt":"2019-11-01T13:00:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=140462"},"modified":"2019-11-19T11:52:58","modified_gmt":"2019-11-19T16:52:58","slug":"all-our-leavings","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/11\/01\/all-our-leavings\/","title":{"rendered":"All Our Leavings"},"content":{"rendered":"

Jill Talbot\u2019s column, The Last Year<\/a>,<\/em> traces the moments before her daughter leaves for college. It will run every Friday this month, and then return for a month each in the winter, spring, and summer.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

It\u2019s late October, and the leaves of the tree outside the door to our apartment in Texas cling to their branches, green and full. Late last night, a surprise rain. My seventeen-year-old daughter and I rushed out to the deluge in bare feet, our T-shirts darkening with each drop. We raised our arms, spinning on the walkway and laughing until lightning seared the sky. I pointed to the tree\u2019s thick arms, thinking about the way they stretch as if waving. We huddled under the light on the porch while rivers swelled against the curbs of the parking lot. When I told her we\u2019ve been running into the rain since she was little, she grinned and nodded, her long blonde hair matted on her shoulders and against her neck. Lately, every moment like this trembles with one idea: our last year.<\/p>\n

It has rained less than five inches since July, not a drop in September. We need this release. We are weary from the stubborn heat. But more than that, we are weary from staying here for so long.<\/p>\n

Indie was born in Colorado in 2002, in February, when snow shawled the trees. By July, her father was gone, slipped out the door on a Saturday morning before she stirred. I could not know then that she and I would never see him again, the same way I couldn\u2019t know our lives, mine and hers, would become a collection of long roads, Uboxes, and change-of-address cards.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

When Indie was sixteen months old, I drove us west into Utah to teach writing at a small university. We lived in a corner house with the largest tree in town, a tree with leaves that covered our yard in brown husks the three falls we were there. Those winters, I\u2019d stare out the window, the shadows of the branches like pencil scribbles across the snow. It was there I decided I would not date until Indie was grown. So it has gone all these years, just the two of us.<\/p>\n

It was there in Utah, when Indie was two and three and four, that I started the tradition: as soon as we hear rain, we throw open the door. During those first rains, I carried her. She was too young to know my sorrow, the way I waited for word from her father, the way I worried about my bank account every month. But when the rain came, all want and worry washed away. And then in the later rains, she beat me to the middle of the yard or the sidewalk or the walkway.<\/p>\n

We left Utah. Then we left Idaho, where a tree outside our duplex spilled yellow-orange onto my windshield. We left Kansas, a room we borrowed, a futon we shared, a tree with branches stretching across a corner of the yard. Then Oklahoma, a tree outside our duplex the setting for the picture I took of Indie in the black-and-white dress she wore on her first day of kindergarten, the morning I told my feet to walk out of Mrs. Brown\u2019s room and leave Indie, let Indie, be. Then New York, where a tall tree outside Indie\u2019s bedroom window turned the grass into a yellow blanket, and she pushed her scooter through the halls of the English building on the weekends. Then Chicago, where our landlady would give me forty dollars a month to feed the birds that flitted in and out of the tree in her front yard, flutters Indie and I watched from our basement window while we binge-watched The Office<\/em> for the first time. Then New Mexico, and the tree that grew through a hole in the back deck of our adobe home where we liked to sit and watch the headlights curve the mountain, and my father called to tell us every time Titanic<\/em> was showing on TNT. And now Texas, where we\u2019ve been for five years, the longest we\u2019ve lived anywhere, where I had the chance to leave a few years ago but didn\u2019t because my parents were fifty miles away in the house where I grew up. Now there\u2019s a tree at the cemetery, a tree I stare at while I tell the headstone my parents share about Indie, about me. At every leaving, I say to the wind, \u201cI know you know this all already.\u201d Then I tell my feet to move.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know trees, how to name them. The same way I may never know how to explain all our leavings. In February, Indie will turn eighteen, and right now, she\u2019s sending out her SAT and ACT scores. I know I am not the first person to stand here, but it\u2019s the first and only time I will stand here, and I\u2019m standing here now.<\/p>\n

This morning, the sun crests the building across the parking lot. I\u2019m waiting under the tree, where last night\u2019s rain clings to the leaves like lighted candles. Every school morning, when Indie pulls away in her car, I blow kisses and wave my arms wildly. This morning, an elderly neighbor who\u2019s been here longer than we have calls from her balcony. \u201cSoon,\u201d she says, her voice like a falling leaf, \u201cI will miss your waving arms.\u201d<\/p>\n

Read earlier installments of\u00a0<\/a><\/em>The Last Year <\/a>here<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

Jill Talbot<\/a>\u00a0is the author of<\/em>\u00a0The Way We Weren\u2019t: A Memoir\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Loaded: Women and Addiction. Her writing has been recognized by\u00a0the Best American Essays and appeared in journals such as\u00a0<\/em>AGNI,<\/em>\u00a0Brevity,<\/em>\u00a0Colorado Review,<\/em>\u00a0DIAGRAM,<\/em>\u00a0Ecotone,<\/em>\u00a0Longreads,<\/em>\u00a0The Normal School,<\/em>\u00a0The Rumpus,<\/em>\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Slice Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Jill Talbot\u2019s first essay in a year-long series on her daughter leaving home.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":487,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[59083],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-140462","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-last-year"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nAll Our Leavings by Jill Talbot<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"November 1, 2019 \u2013 Jill Talbot\u2019s first essay in a year-long series on her daughter leaving home.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/11\/01\/all-our-leavings\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta 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