I threw my own going-away party last Saturday. At the chapel, not the funeral home—same building, different tone.
I bought a case of the local Cabernet and a wheel of brie. In the checkout line at closing time, the girl said, "Big night?" I said, "Retirement." She threw in the crackers for free.
In my coat pocket I found a motel notepad with a phone number scribbled in my own handwriting. I don't remember whose. I didn't call.
Twenty people came. Widows I'd held hands with, a couple whose son I'd buried, the mailman who knew every porch.
They brought food, told stories, laughed. I stood at the door and shook every hand. One woman whispered, "Now go enjoy the sun."
After everyone left, I locked the chapel door. The quiet was different from a funeral. It was mine.
I drove home with the last half-bottle of wine and sat on the porch. The vineyard beyond the driveway was bare for winter.
I looked at that motel notepad one more time. Then I slipped it into the kitchen drawer, unopened. Some goodbyes don't need a return call.