Two weeks. That’s all I’ve got left before Cyprus. Time’s ticking on our UK departure, and I’m riding an emotional roller coaster I didn’t see coming.
There’s something about knowing you’re leaving that makes everything sharper. That neighbour’s wave, the familiar creak of the garden gate, the exact number of steps to the corner shop – suddenly they’re precious because they’re numbered.
I keep dancing around the word “goodbye.” It feels too final, like slamming a door I can’t reopen. “See you later” sits easier on the tongue, even when we both know “later” might be years away, or never.
Today on the Cotswolds Way, I caught myself stopping to breathe in the chamomile. Actually told my wife about it – something I’d walked past a hundred times without noticing. Cyprus won’t smell like chamomile. It’ll smell like something else, maybe better, but different.
Soon I’ll be that confused person in Cypriot supermarkets, squinting at labels, buying the wrong washing powder, turning down aisles three times before finding milk. No more autopilot grocery runs. Everything will require thought, translation, patience.
How many times will we mutter “If only we were in the UK!” before we find our rhythm? How many wrong turns before the right ones become routine?
Maybe that’s the gift in leaving – you can’t sleepwalk through life when everything’s new. Even if it means occasionally bringing home fabric softener instead of detergent.
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