Goodbye is not a word

As mentioned before, the lifestyle my parents chose for me involves a lot of farewells and goodbyes. Today as always was no different, I actually had both been looking forward and dreading this day. It’s weird.

So I got to the party fashionably late not knowing what to expect. I was a little scared and was prepared to go into my awkward state when jokes spewed I heard myself laugh my crazy loud laugh for the first time in months. People talked to me, I put in some conversation. I felt different I felt normal. I felt loved, strange as it sounds.

“Hey memoric it’s nice knowing you, good luck.”
I fish through my backpack and find a small card. It’s pink and has a pig on it. He laughs.
“Nobody got me anything.”
“Well, I wanted to do this with everybody, but they left without me knowing.”
“she said it was okay (crossed out) its all her fault this card has a pink pig on it.”

He smiles. I’m wrapped up in a hug and for the first time in months I find myself in tears for somebody else.
“memoric, best of luck.”
I smile,
“you bet!”

In the lifestyle my parents raised me in, we never said goodbye whenever somebody left. We never said see you later, because we always never knew when later was. There is no word in our lifestyle that defines “leaving” but perhaps Markus Zusak wrote it best:

Not leaving: an act of trust and love,
often deciphered by children”

    The Book Thief

He’s not leaving us, well physically he is, but mentally, electronically, he’ll never leave us. He means too much to all of us. And that said I can accept his leaving because I know that meeting him has sent me on a spiral of vast changes.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s