Parting Is Bittersweet

Tonight I sat on the floor of my office watching my husband transfer a decal onto the new Speck cover for the Mac Book I have … or rather … had.

You see, for this Christmas my family really jumped head long into my career.  My husband bought me a new (much lighter) Mac Book Air, my in-laws’ gifted me with a “magic” track pad (which by the way, is kind of magical :)).  I spent the day readying this new computer for the onslaught of use it will see … installing all the important software that lets me do what I do.  I was really, really happy.  It’s a fantastic machine.

Then … I came home.

I’m not the sort that grows attached to material things … well, not normally.  I have things that I love, of course — we all do … but I’m more connected to people and places … and the things I cherish are generally the ones that remind me of the people I love and the places I’ve been.  But … a computer is just that … a computer, right?

I replace technology all the time, never really thinking about it.  It’s never been “a big deal” for me … out with the old, in with the new.  If I like something … the newer something would probably be even better — at least, that’s my logic.

But, as I watched my husband take my Pro and turn it into his own … I felt something that ached a little bit like sorrow.

I realized that my (old) computer and I had something in common, something I’ll never be able to duplicate with something new, no matter how fancy … we, Pro & I, shared a story.  We were in the trenches together.  We suffered the same plights of writing my debut novel together … all the beauty and all of the frustration.  And maybe this is all rather ridiculous, but I did … do … feel bonded to that machine in away that’s easy to understand in my mind but hard to explain on paper.  It was the beginning of something special … and now, I’ve moved on.

I made Mark promise me we’ll keep it always … long after it’s become outdated and passé, far past it’s prime and even if it’s sluggish on it’s best day while moonlighting as rock on it’s worst.  I won’t really care how it remains … just so long as it does.  Because, I suppose, it is a “place” for me.

Writing is a very, very solitary thing.  It’s isolation.  It’s you … and you’re computer.  It’s along for the wild ride, and sits silently, ever diligent in encouraging you along.  The cursor blinks where your mind shuts off as though to say “what’s next?” or “you can’t really be done!”

I love my new computer … I really do.  It’s fast (like really fast) … and lightweight (almost like air) … and I know together we’ll do really great things.  But my Pro — it will always be a sweet spot of remembrance of the day, the week, the year my life really changed.