Carry Me Home

Is it okay if we come by in half an hour, instead? her voice says over the phone. And the day I had planned, of cleaning up my mother's bicycle in anticipation of its departure, of playing the piano until my fingers bled before I bid it goodbye, it slipped through my fingers as I rushed to pack the last of the books in a blue IKEA bag. I jumped quickly out of the waters yesterday, to greet the passing friends, I carried out my piano in a mad dash today, amidst invitations of coffee and polite conversations; it is no coincidence. I allow for no long goodbyes, I do not revel in the departure. After my aunt had driven off with my dearest possessions, to store them for unknown days and years far from my reach, the day lay like an open gash in the Indian summer sunshine. We took a long walk across the channel, fell into lunch with a baby in my arms, sat for hours and innumerable glasses of wine on the town square; the day was perfect. The neighbors passed by and we realized this was it.

I know I am saying my goodbyes. I know I am holding onto your company a little more desperately, a little more dearly, and perhaps you will grow tired of it before too long. But I am stocking up on your stories, I am etching the sound of your voice into the folds of my heart. A week from now, you will still have a life, you will have a morning coffee and silly text messages, you will still go to the bar and get too drunk for a weekday night. A week from now, the trees will be a little more yellow, but you will still remark how mild the season, how kind the sunshine. And the apartment at the top of the hill will be empty. I will be long gone.

I am glad this day turned out like nothing I had planned.

There is no planning
a goodbye
such as this.