So. 2020 has been quite a thing, hasn't it? If I'm being real, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about the deaths. The racial reckonings. The soon-to-be-former president. What could I say that Trevor Noah hasn't said better? There's no material for me in a year like this. But as it comes to a close, I think I've found my niche—the one topic I feel like I can talk about with some authority: endings. Moving on The first definitive ending I remember was the summer between sixth and seventh grade. It was the year we came home from camp to see a moving truck in the driveway. Was that the real timing of it? Perhaps not. But it's the way I experience it in my memory. I went to camp with my friends and came home to an empty house and an open road. Saying goodbye The next ending saw me in a soccer field in the middle of the jungle, waving at a climbing plane and knowing that even though it was my parents who were flying away, it was their child