Departure

One never truly knows until the very end, that things end. We are so hopelessly bereft of wisdom. We go around and around, turning and turning, spiraling out of control, looking this way and that, never at the face of our existence, defying all that life is to create our own personal experiences for our little tremulous lives. And thus we never know. We never know what it is that we truly do. We can never know. But then as the susurrus of pages turning and turning slowly dies to reveal a dreaded quiet, as the hard liquid ink becomes lighter and lighter, as we draw ourselves closer to exhaustion, we see that things are quite different and that we have been grievously wrong about everything we have known. Who can truly believe, with all earnestness, in the moment of a song, the next hours will be spent in silence?

A friend, lover, companion went away this night. And I sit here, now trying to fill the vacuum that he has left behind. I am suddenly given the responsibility to inhabit this room alone. Suddenly, it is quiet, empty, different. The previous hours in his mirthful company have withered to become memory. And while this memory lingers, it invokes his absence. During the long drive to the airport, I thought I was going somewhere else, somewhere to be together but never to part. The vast city with its unblinking lights felt safe and at a distance. It was even beautiful. But then as we neared the massive structure of the airport, things began to crumble and evade me. I’ve never truly been happy at airports and railway stations. Some woman bundled up in a corner, or a child sitting on one of those red plastic seats is always sad. Furthermore, in that hurry and running around one never realizes how truly sad one is. It is only after that departure, after that one moment when the clasp loosens, when a beloved is swallowed by a wave of strangers the realization occurs. Something is over. Irrevocably changed.

The long drive back is arduous when one is alone; the city at night is a sad thing, especially when the residual warmth of a dear companion has settled in the folds of your shirt; when your hands still bear a faint remembrance of his scent. And this is no compensation for your loss but a cruel reminder of that very loss. It is not memory. It is absence.

We embraced tightly to make up for all the embraces that will not be. We looked into each other’s eyes, briefly, mumbled incoherent words; mumbled a little more. But a hard bulging noise had deafened our ears. I got into the cab and looked straight ahead, firmly, as if I was the one going somewhere. He did the same and walked on, pushing his cart carrying his luggage, and was soon swallowed by a wave of strangers. But he was definitely going somewhere. He was going away.