Not goodbye. See you later.

Our parish priest retired today. He married us, baptized our daughter, arranged her first reconciliation and gave her first communion. He helped us through the death of M's grandmother. I shall miss him.

I have learned that I stink at goodbyes. I hate them, for one, and it always feels awkward to me. So, just like how I've mastered the art of slipping out unnoticed from a party, I've also decided to pretty much skip farewells altogether. We went to Mass, then the celebratory lunch with many from our parish. People said kind words about this kind man, and we all applauded in between bites of turkey, beef, roasted potatoes, candied carrots, and salad. Then the mile-long line formed to say goodbye.

I didn't want to do it. Saying goodbye implies we will never see him again. He's moving into his brother's home, which is in the parish that shares the chapel at the school where I work, so I'm just going to assume I will see him there from time to time. No goodbyes necessary. We left and I feel better for what is probably a cowardly action. Being 40 now and all, though, means I get to call the shots for myself. And if I don't want to say goodbye, I won't. Dammit.