I've said a lot of goodbyes in my lifetime. I've absorbed the shock of lives lost too soon and settled into the soberness that follows the dissolution of relationships, both platonic and romantic. Goodbyes are never easy for me, and I find that I still shed tears in those first moments of solitude (just like I did as a child leaving my grandmother's house).
Last night I drove with my love to the airport--our fingers interlaced and my head resting on his shoulder. We spent the weekend alternating between questions like, "What's going on? Your face! Your face!" and answers like, "Let's not talk about this now." I watched him tenderly share his sentiments with the dogs and the walls of my house and the air in the front field.
Time was not on our side, and the sun slowly made its way toward the horizon.
We checked his bag and retrieved his boarding pass. Then we stole our final moments together randomly chatting about things serious and not so serious. My heart beat like the hands of a clock, and he finally told me that I needed to go and asked to make sure I understood why he said that. Of course, I did.
I'm sparing the details of the ensuing moments, but I've never felt my heart ache like it did then. To see the look in his eyes and feel the strength of his grip around my back and neck told me what my heart has known for a long time. The day after we met, he posted on Facebook some song lyrics: "I need a girl." I told him the story last night of how I wanted to reply to that, "I think you have one." He smiled and asked why I didn't do it because he made up his mind about me that day--just like I did about him. We've not looked back.
Until this moment when we needed to temporarily part ways.
Dale, he said--"Go ahead and do it."
And I turned around and walked away. In a matter of hours we were busy on Skype, chatting again and missing each other in a way that I may never be able to describe in words. Saying goodbye via the Internet was no easier than it was in the airport. I'll be with him on Saturday, and we will have a week together in his country. We'll have some weekend visits until the summer when I will be a temporary resident in his country.
We've completed part one of the movie (as he says). This is intermission. My heart still aches every time I see his empty drawer or his glasses with juice residue still sitting on the porch table where he left them. I cannot bring myself to clean them right now because as long as they are there, it's as if he's still here.
Last night, I looked at him through the lens of the webcam and said, "This was harder than you thought it would be, isn't it?" He nodded silently. I know the feeling.
As I slowly drifted to sleep, he texted me the lyric: "You're still the one."
And I'm still in awe of this love.
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