{"id":143550,"date":"2020-03-13T11:45:46","date_gmt":"2020-03-13T15:45:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=143550"},"modified":"2020-03-16T13:24:16","modified_gmt":"2020-03-16T17:24:16","slug":"the-return","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/03\/13\/the-return\/","title":{"rendered":"The Return"},"content":{"rendered":"

Jill Talbot\u2019s column,\u00a0The Last Year<\/a>, <\/em>traces in real time the moments before her daughter leaves for college. The column ran every Friday in November and January. It returns through March, and then will again in June.<\/em><\/p>\n

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

I\u2019m aiming my camera at a bench on Pearl Street in Boulder, Colorado. The red-brick path is lined with outdoor shops, galleries, and breweries. Boulder Bookstore. The clouds draw their curtain, a gray weight. The Flatirons are weighted, too, diagonal slabs of sandstone towering like three growing spikes on a graph.<\/p>\n

Eighteen years ago, I sat on this bench.<\/p>\n

I wait for strangers to step out of the frame. They pass or linger in lace-up boots and parkas, jeans and huddled laughter\u2014all intruders, because while I stand on this brick street in winter, it\u2019s really a long-ago afternoon in June.<\/p>\n

In \u201cStreet Haunting,\u201d Virginia Woolf asks, \u201cIs the true self this which stands on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in June? Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that it is only when we give the rein to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves?\u201d<\/p>\n

Maybe we go back to places not to ask questions, but to realize we don\u2019t have them anymore. <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

That day in June, my father\u2014who\u2019s been gone for three years now\u2014sat next to me on this bench and said something about how it must be hard to leave a place so beautiful. I looked toward the Flatirons: \u201cThere\u2019s too much sadness here.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m back in Boulder because I want to show my daughter, now eighteen, where she was born, where she lived as an infant, where she began. I want to try to explain who I was here.<\/p>\n

I think we harbor our longings for places we\u2019ve left because we miss who we were in them. I\u2019ve lingered in door frames and driveways, felt the pierce of pulling away from a past self. The hardest part is knowing what I can\u2019t take with me. Because after enough miles and enough passed exits, something dissolves, like light in a room when the sun turns down.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve always thought I realized a place only after I left it. But maybe it\u2019s this, the return.<\/p>\n

While I wait to take the photograph, my daughter stands beside me. I have told her the bench\u2019s story. She steps closer to me as the sky grows darker, the air colder.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

For one summer in my late twenties, I lived in a small, two-story house on the banks of the Eagle River in Colorado. A friend coaxed me there, told me she and her husband needed help with the resort-town rent. I settled into their corner room upstairs. One afternoon, not long after I\u2019d arrived, I pulled into the gravel drive and stepped out\u2014I can still hear the crunch of tires against the stones\u2014toward a very tall, bearded man. The fourth roommate. Later, he told me it felt like he had been standing there waiting for me to come home. The summer unfolded. I waited tables at a bar in Vail, and he wired condominiums in the valley.<\/p>\n

Seasons come and go, and that summer ended with a phone call from a university offering me a job. I delayed my departure until late August, when the bearded man and I lingered in the gravel drive. He snapped a photograph\u2014my head thrown back in laughter. After I drove thirty minutes down the mountain, I realized I had forgotten my makeup bag. I turned back and found him standing in the drive, weeping. As I stepped out, he rushed over and picked me up. He thought I had changed my mind. He thought I had come back.<\/p>\n

But I left. Again.<\/p>\n

A year passed, me in Texas, him in Colorado, by that time Boulder, but we never turned away, our approach toward one another like the pull of a river. One day, I found two letters from him in the mail. I drove back to Colorado.<\/p>\n

The bearded man and I lasted four years. Four months after our daughter was born, he woke me one morning to say he was going, for good. His sudden absence loomed like the Flatirons. I\u2019d drive every street, looking for nothing but the blue of his truck. I\u2019d leave questions on his voicemail. He never answered.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I should have come back to Boulder years ago. When I left, I left lonely and aching and lost, but when my daughter and I returned, I returned to images I had forgotten, like the photos of her at six months that slipped from a book last week. When I looked up at the balcony of our old apartment, I heard the click click click click of my daughter\u2019s swing in the living room. When I turned down one street, I saw my friend, Charles, in his black coat, sitting across from me on the patio of the Hotel Boulderado. I drove near the trail I used to run along the foothills. Saw myself laughing as I ducked into the Sink for a pint. Setting the infant seat down in the upstairs ballroom of Boulder Bookstore while I pulled paperbacks from shelves. I passed the day care where I picked up my daughter that day in June after the bearded man stepped onto an elevator, after I moved to a window in the courthouse to watch his blue truck pull out of the parking lot. He left town not long after. No idea where he might be now.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

That June, as I sat on this bench with my father, I studied the graph of my life before me\u2014I would raise my daughter on my own. My father patted my knee. We were looking at the Flatirons when he said the words, \u201cIt must be hard to leave such a beautiful place.\u201d<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Finally, the street empties.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe sights we see and the sounds we hear now have none of the quality of the past,\u201d Woolf writes.<\/p>\n

I left Boulder a long time ago, and eventually, the sadness left me. I had to come back to see the the beauty, the best part of this place. She huddles against me, so much taller than I, her long blonde hair a swirl in the wind. I snap the photograph.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Read earlier installments of\u00a0<\/a><\/em>The Last Year<\/em>\u00a0<\/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":"

Maybe we go back to places not to ask questions, but to realize we don\u2019t have them anymore.<\/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-143550","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-last-year"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Return by Jill Talbot<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 13, 2020 \u2013 Maybe we go back to places not to ask questions, but to realize we don\u2019t have them anymore.\" \/>\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\/2020\/03\/13\/the-return\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" 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