For every thing I think of that makes me sad to leave San Lucas, I name some annoying nuance or something I didn't like dealing with, and that helps me feel better, trying to trick myself into thinking there's benefit in this departure. The weight of these small things never makes me feel whole or completely better, but it stops the tears temporarily.
I focus on neutral thoughts. How would I say this sentence in Spanish? What's the conjugation of this verb? Where did Adrian buy his vest?
I try and think of ridiculous visitor stories, having a one sided conversation in my head, shazaming the songs on the radio.
I wonder about all the stupid facts volunteers ask about.
I inevitably get derailed when my thoughts become snagged on a person I didn't say goodbye to, on old handshakes and jokes. Then it's like a flash flood of tears, and I force myself to go back to irregular conjugations, a stupid word game just so I can see without feeling the burn of salt water.
I watch as Adrian plays chicken with camionetas. I feel numb and exhausted.
I write down all my thoughts and feelings so they don't well up in my chest like a dam threatening to burst.
They burst anyway.
I think about what it would be like to go to a free foreign doctor clinic only to have them tell you you'll only live another 90 days.
I fade in and out of sleep, drained from crying and trying not to cry. I awake to a chicken bus cutting us off.
If I had it my way, I would nearly always leave in the middle of the night. I would sneak out under the cover of the evening sky, leaving with emotions unscathed and unwitnessed tears trailing in my wake. I wouldn't have long dramatic hugs, rather simple "see ya laters" without knowing how long see ya later would actually entail. I would never have a going away party, rather every day would be treasured as the potential last. I wouldn't leave at the beck and call of a calendar, instead I'd be wandering to the beat of my various homes.
Formal comings and goings are hard.
I'd much prefer the sporadic and uninterrupted surprises of life than the tedium of always planning a departure.
I focus on neutral thoughts. How would I say this sentence in Spanish? What's the conjugation of this verb? Where did Adrian buy his vest?
I try and think of ridiculous visitor stories, having a one sided conversation in my head, shazaming the songs on the radio.
I wonder about all the stupid facts volunteers ask about.
I inevitably get derailed when my thoughts become snagged on a person I didn't say goodbye to, on old handshakes and jokes. Then it's like a flash flood of tears, and I force myself to go back to irregular conjugations, a stupid word game just so I can see without feeling the burn of salt water.
I watch as Adrian plays chicken with camionetas. I feel numb and exhausted.
I write down all my thoughts and feelings so they don't well up in my chest like a dam threatening to burst.
They burst anyway.
I think about what it would be like to go to a free foreign doctor clinic only to have them tell you you'll only live another 90 days.
I fade in and out of sleep, drained from crying and trying not to cry. I awake to a chicken bus cutting us off.
If I had it my way, I would nearly always leave in the middle of the night. I would sneak out under the cover of the evening sky, leaving with emotions unscathed and unwitnessed tears trailing in my wake. I wouldn't have long dramatic hugs, rather simple "see ya laters" without knowing how long see ya later would actually entail. I would never have a going away party, rather every day would be treasured as the potential last. I wouldn't leave at the beck and call of a calendar, instead I'd be wandering to the beat of my various homes.
Formal comings and goings are hard.
I'd much prefer the sporadic and uninterrupted surprises of life than the tedium of always planning a departure.