Ever since we moved to Texas I usually cry a whole lot when my family leaves. Mom, Pops, Andrew, Laura and Ernie packed themselves into my parents’ van and drove off on Sunday afternoon at 2:30.
I bravely watched them get in the car while not officially crying, just sniffling and tearing up quite badly.
There were way too many people around for me to actually cry. I hate crying.
Knowing that if I were to stand there and watch them actually back out of the driveway I would begin to cry in earnest, I charged in the house and up the stairs as quickly as possible.
Sister, Joey, Cousine (aka Sarah) and The Kid followed me inside.
“Sister, you shall be well!” Sister said to me in our Jane Austen-esque code language. (Translation for the rest of you: “Jenna, you’re going to be fine”.)
“I never used to cry until we moved to Texas,” I choked out. I was trying not to talk because I was afraid it would set off the tearflow.
“But Sister, you must cry sometimes. I read somewhere that it releases necessary toxins, otherwise you’d get real sick.” She patted my shoulder.
“Um, wait. Isn’t that actually peeing?” The Kid piped in from the breakfast room.
We all began to laugh. Joey concurred with The Kid and they began ganging up on Sister, who felt the need to defend her statement. Of course.
“I mean, she’d get real anxious and have stress problems!” Sister was seeming fairly stressed out herself now. Perhaps a good cry was in order for her as well.
And, just like that, I felt better.
Until, of course, Sister, Pumpkin and Cousine left for Chicago and we dropped The Kid off at the Greyhound bus station. (All by himself! Poor thing! That place is seriously ghetto.)
I was doing OK by the time we reached the airport and Grandpa and Grandma pulled away but, mostly because Joey reminded me I’ll see them all again at Christmas.