When Friends Move Away

On the Other Side of the Sadness
Is Gratitude for the Memories

By Cynthia Carbone Ward | August 21, 2025

More than boxes are packed when friends move away. | Credit: Courtesy

Read more from our 2025 Active Aging Guide here.

I noticed the labels first. Rows and rows of stick-on labels with words like: “Kitchen,” “Living Room,” “Fragile,” “Books.” And then, of course, the cardboard boxes, most of them still empty and piled flat on the floor, awaiting fulfillment of purpose in their not-yet-assembled state.

And, of course, I notice the floor itself, in newly bare swaths, chairs shoved aside, vacancies interspersed with clutter, some scent of old pages and dust. And baskets. My friends liked baskets; many were still hanging above the sink and cupboards, while others joined a collection of baskets for the taking. (I now own one.)

As for items to be taken, there is a pile of sundry items on the washer in the back: flashlights with dead batteries, plant food, laundry detergent, garden tools and gadgets, and various objects of art or something of the sort. In our own lives, the goal has lately been to let go of things, to streamline, rather than acquire, but I succumb to the offer and abscond with a huge bottle of Woolite and a tiny flashlight that may or may not work.

I stick around for most of the kitchen packing, amazed and discouraged by the sheer number of mugs, bowls, cookware, and utensils that accumulate over the years. Now, every dish is wrapped in newspaper and bubble wrap for the long journey east, and I wonder how much of the stuff will be given away on the other end, but I recognize that some of these decisions are best deferred.

It’s heartwarming to see the band of friends, mostly women, who have assembled here to help. Susie assumes a leadership role, assigning everyone a specific domain and task. I am to be a “gopher,” which, as it turns out, is basically one who fetches things for others and carries packed boxes to the porch, but which, I soon realize, is the sort of job you give to a toddler to keep them occupied and out of the way when you aren’t really sure what to do with them. We are overstaffed.

And none of this explains the sadness and discombobulation I am feeling, the gnawing sense of vulnerability and anticipatory loss. Robin and Jim, our friends for more than 30 years, are moving from California to North Carolina to be near their children and grandchildren. It’s a wonderful and exciting change for them, an appropriate step into a new chapter of their lives, but it certainly prompts a great deal of emotion and reflection.

We were young together once … stupidly, obliviously young. We were busy with kids and work, but somehow also managed to have fun in ways that would have demanded so much energy, effort, and time — I don’t know how we did it. There are snapshots of us on weekend women’s hikes — Big Sur, the Pinnacles, Guadalupe dunes — and visual proof that we did these things, but the mystery of how remains unsolved. I suppose that’s the magic of being young. Nothing on us hurt in those days, and we were impossibly robust. I guess we assumed we’d always feel that way, although we didn’t really think about it.

There were also less grandiose endeavors, such as the day-to-day involvement in the community and the shared experience of being in this time and place together. There were poetry nights, potlucks, and writing group gatherings. There was Jim in his Land Cruiser (300,000 miles?), driving to the beach where Monte might already be surfing, and Robin and I were always pleased that our husbands weren’t out alone. There were toyon seedlings and book club meetings, ballots to count and issues to discuss, old tales carried on the wind and new ones arising like the weather each day. Jim and Robin were snugly woven into the vibrant tapestry of life here across the span of decades. It’s hard to picture it without them.

Now, suddenly, we are grandparents, and they are packing to move, and those of us with kids who live on the other side of the world are wishing we could do the same. We stand here, bewildered, in a changing landscape.

I left the moving scene after lunch in the garden, carrying my basket, the large jug of Woolite, and the flashlight I hope works. I turned to look back one more time at the humble little house, its contents in a jumble now, next occupants unknown, then went bumping along the rutted dusty road, marveling as always at the raggedy, rustic loveliness of this place I soon won’t visit anymore.

Life doesn’t get any easier. Losses accrue, grief digs in until it is permanently lodged in your heart, and even the very framework of our nation, flawed and messy, but beautiful and aspirational, created to secure the blessings of liberty and justice — even that feels shaky now. The most brazen lies masquerade as truth in the eyes of many.

I’m doing my best. Only rarely do I succumb to the urge to retreat to bed in the middle of the day with the covers over my head. (I did that once last week.) But I think we need to acknowledge those feelings and capitulate to a time out now and then, as long as we get back up.

Meanwhile, dear friends pack their things and move away, and all we can do is give them a hand, wish them well, and wonder why they had such a big bottle of Woolite.

And I sound so sad, but sadness is just the other side of the joy and gratitude I feel. How many of us have the privilege of living in a community of loving friends who gather to wrap plates and pack boxes and sit beneath an arbor eating sandwiches and persimmons? Our hearts are crammed more fully than those cardboard boxes, brimming with memories and love. We travel lightly, after all — and in light.