festival of last things

It's a funny process, moving out of a city that you've called home for
the last 2 and a half years and not knowing if you'll ever return to
live in that city again or not. It's compounded yet again by also
leaving the country, especially for another country that you haven't
been to before and one where you can't speak a word of the language.
Little things like being able to talk to people behind the counter at
the local hardware store suddenly seem to have a lot of relevance. Even
loud-speaker anouncements in the local shopping centre take on a
greater sense of significance - I imagine that I'll be standing in a
shopping centre or public area and a loudspeaker announcement takes
place and I continue my shopping happily but everyone else falls eerily
silent and then starts running, and there I am, left wondering what
the hell was just said.

Having had plenty of time to pack up and leave, I began to get
overly nostalgic about the little things, like the people you see when
walking down the street, the anorexia girls on the bikepath, the smell
of the figs that always accompanied my ride on the last down-hill slope
before home. It starts with little things, like the last time I'll buy
this sweet chilli sauce, or that jar of marinated artichoke hearts, and
then I realise, this could be the last time I ever walk down this
street or the last time I'm served by my favourite waitress, the last
time I cook a meal in my kitchen, the last time i'll see explosion man
or any of my other favorite hobos and crazy people roaming the streets,
the last time I hear the optus lady telling me I have 3 new messages..
And then it grows to more difficult situations like the last time you
spent working with your friends at work, perhaps even the last time you
see this person or that person, who up until now has been so familiar
in your current setting. What I never even realised or anticipated was
that it may just be the last time spent living with the one I love.