The very end

Where to begin when you're telling the very end of a story?

I spent a dreamy last week in Quebrada Pastor. I stared at the greenness of all of those hundreds of thousands of leaves. I listened one last time to the arrival of a rain storm, hearing it hit the zinc roof of my neighbors two seconds before it hit mine. I wanted to talk to everyone who defined the last two years, to spend one last hour in their houses, to share one more meal. I tried my best to say something to let them know what this experience had meant. My words were jumbled. I did a bad job, but they nod, and there was as much understanding as there ever was.

This life, which became normal and routine, would all of a sudden seem foreign and strange the second I stepped back home. And I hate that it's that way. That such a beautiful, complicated, challenging experience already seems to me like a dream.

In those last few days, the tension hung. The kids visited even more than usual, snuggling extra close, attaching themselves to me, trying--and succeeding-- to prolong their already too-long visits. Some adults did the same, only slightly more subtly, and I did it right back to them.

Friday morning arrived, and all of my bags were packed and waiting. My closest friends came over one last time. I said goodbye to my host family and it seemed too simple and too big all at once. I felt like a traitor. I lived in this place for two years, trying to learn about them, be like them, get them to like me, and like them back, and maybe after all that, do some work. And then it was ending and I go back to a place that they don't know and act like someone who isn't exactly their Cati. I didn't want to stay anymore, but leaving didn't feel good either.

My neighbors walk me down to the bus shelter. Every time I looked at someone's face I started to cry, and I noticed the adults wouldn't look at me either. But the kids kept staring. They've always been the best at that. One boy asked his dad, why I was crying. His dad explained that I was sad to go, and the boy asked, "Then why doesn't she stay?"

Truthfully, I looked forward to leaving for weeks. I wanted to go. But all of a sudden, when faced with the fact that a bus would be coming within minutes and taking me away, I couldn't believe how all my reasons for leaving suddenly seemed less important than this one reason for staying: This is way harder than I thought.

A bus pulls into sight. My neighbor asked me if I'm going to get on. The thought that this was the very very end, and hearing that he was thinking for a second that it might not be, shattered any control I was trying to maintain.

Hugs and kisses from people I never hugged or kissed before. The sweetest, comforting words from people who are usually too stoic to say those kinds of things. One last squeeze for the kids who are reaching their arms up, hugging me on their tiptoes. Those liquid eyes were never afraid to stare into mine, and they weren't then. And me, I couldn't say anything. I couldn't even look. The only thing I managed to get out was "Thank you" as they helped get my luggage on the bus, told me they'll see me, and made me promise to call.

Then I'm on the bus, and it's moving away. Everyone's waving. And then I'm gone, and the story is over.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.