the river of no return

This morning I opened my eyes and thought: one week, and was filled with sheer, undiluted terror. It was like staring down from the cliff you are about to jump off.
Time is a river, that's one metaphor that describes it well enough. It flows in only one direction; it bears everything away. However much I tell myself it's over, this is the end, the conclusion of this particular chapter, some part of me refuses to believe it. Tonight, a lavish dinner at the Siena Hotel in Chapel Hill with Jarek's brother and family, and with Bill and Czesia who have been our friends for so many years. The last one. Driving back from Chapel Hill; how many times have we made this drive on I-40? But never again, not like this.
Next week we will be on the highway, driving north; the movers will have come and gone. The house is going back to the way it used to look, back when we first moved in. Echoing empty spaces where we gave away furniture, the old brass faux-antique chandelier hung up to replace the truly antique arts-and-crafts one we bought. Will I ever have a dining room again to hang a chandelier in? I don't know. I do know that I will never again love a house the way I love this one.
But now I can imagine my new life in Brooklyn and feel a certain guilt about even contemplating it, let alone feeling excitment or anticipation. How dare I envision being happy; who do I think I am? I have this vague idea that I will somehow be a better version of myself in New York, less timid and vague and small-minded. I wonder. Does geography really change a person?