Forgiving Farewells

By J. Hunter

Image provided by Hunter

I suppose it’s some kind of cosmic mercy 

that my first major goodbye I don’t remember. I was just one year old, 

moving to the nation printed on my passport. 

I probably cried, small children don’t have the best rapport 

with airlines. I definitely didn’t understand that this was the first of many goodbyes, 

my first and only farewell to normalcy.

I have few memories of the second farewell, 

of a daycare that treated me nicely. Diaper changes and bad potty training 

accompanied by cinnamon apple slices and chocolate milk for tots. 

A hospital visit and lovely nap time on blue state-issued children's cots 

I was sad when Mom said we had to go. I was going to miss 

the bus rides near rocky blue mountains at dawn, 

our bus driver telling us that sometimes the moon stays up with the sun.

I didn’t know it was farewell until our third day in the car, 

the small knitted pink gift blanket draped over my lap. 

I only cried a little, I think.

My third farewell was different. 

I slept through most of it, 6 months 

away from my mother and living with her friend. 

She was far away. That much I knew. I don’t remember 

how often we could talk to her, but I know it wasn’t much 

because when she came home I almost didn’t recognize her voice. 

Her “see you later” sounded a lot like “goodbye” but I don’t think 

I could tell you how I knew that. 

Maybe it was the way she kissed my cheek and held me tight. 

Maybe it was the way she whispered to Miss Nichole and her boyfriend. 

I definitely remember the “welcome back” though. 

Maybe that's all that mattered.

The next farewell I don’t remember. 

Maybe it was stress, a daunting 16-hour flight with no break 

that stole my memory. Maybe it was the new woman with us,

an older lady who went by the name Grandma with a kind smile 

and missing teeth. Maybe it was the sandman, trading dreams 

for recollection as priceless currency. I remember crying though, 

I didn’t want to leave my friends behind. 

We never finished playing our game.

The next goodbye was quick. 

My mother had to leave again, a massive bag 

placed on her small back delicately hindered her farewell hug. 

It was the same as last time, a kiss on the cheek and arms that held tight. 

This time she made us promise to be good for Grandma, 

and I told her that I would and my brother said the same. 

When she left, we surrendered to the loving grip of our grandmother. 

It turned into my first farewell to myself, my innocence 

leaving with my mother to die in the desert. My mother returned, 

and I had to say farewell again, this time to her easy smiles, boastful glee and 

her patience. 

Her resistance to anger. 

I forgave her for it anyway.

I didn’t cry on the next goodbye. 

Crying was for children and I was old enough to know better. 

My crocodile tears wouldn’t stop the movers from losing my things shipping, 

wouldn’t stop the plane from picking us up and taking us to a new continent. 

Crying wouldn’t keep me from leaving 

my not-quite friends and thrown out third-grade school projects. 

Yaki mandu dumplings and Seoraksan’s mountains couldn’t keep me, 

I wasn’t theirs to hold. I was going to Italy, 

I should’ve felt grateful. 

I just felt numb instead.

I hated how a “see you later” could feel so sweet years after it happened. 

I remember grandmother left, loving words of 

“it’s your fault” floating easily from her breath. 

Firm embraces full of tears and whispers of 

“you weren’t good enough” wormed into my mind. 

One month into fourth grade and I was already a failure. 

I remember I cried when I found out she was leaving, 

I tried to beg her to stay, pleading I would be good, a better child for her. 

I found out years later that it wasn’t because of me. 

That she lied in an attempt to shield me. 

I love her still and she loves me. 

But I have not forgiven. 

I don’t think I ever will.

I didn’t cry. 

I promise you I didn’t. 

Why would I cry over cruel bullies and no friends? 

Insecurities and unhelpful teachers, ignorant doctors and adult friends? 

I had no reason to cry over mom’s TDYs 

and weeks at Ms Lia’s house with her husband and dog. 

Crying over Lake Garda and lost Gardaland summer passes 

would be useless. There would be no point in crying over the 

persimmon tree that made the sweetest fruit from my neighbor's yard. 

The plum and olive trees from my own yard. 

There would be no reason to cry over leaving San Giorgio’s spaghetti house 

and friendly host Stefano and their handcrafted pizza behind. 

The square and market and delicious strawberry basil sorbet for 2€ a scoop. 

There was no reason to cry over leaving the 

Alpine Mountains, foothills that cradled me always reaching 

with rivers and trails we climbed every spring, summer and fall. 

There was no reason to cry over lost starry nights and heart-breaking sunsets. 

The end of an era.

No reason at all.

I definitely didn’t cry leaving the swampy hell. 

The kids who surrounded me felt too young. Too shiny and new 

and eroded all at once. They’ve never left their state, 

have never driven across countries. 

Never worried about their parents' lives in the Middle East. 

One girl called my mother a murderer because she was in the military. 

Called me a monster because I defended her. 

I stood like a cottonmouth, mouth gaping, a threat swirling above my tongue 

and stuck behind my teeth. 

A different group was shallower than the marsh, 

trapping me with them like gators tearing off pieces of my story 

like picking cherries in summer. 

When I left three kids cried, but I laughed in their faces. 

They didn’t know me. 

I certainly didn’t know them.

I bade farewell to two people in the Queen’s country. 

The first one left a life of discomfort and rain to live in joy and sunshine. 

I was a selfish child, but I would not bind them 

when they wished to be free. I never cried for them, I knew they were happier. 

The other was taken, the force of fate decided her time was up, 

the last thing she told me was to do better in school. 

She was my mother’s friend, 

an Auntie in every sense but blood. I cried for four days. 

Two for her, and two for her daughters. 

I stopped after that, my tears won’t change her fate, 

won’t help her daughters grieve a loss too soon. 

I hold a place for her in my heart, for her memory 

to remain for as long 

as fate allows.

I didn’t cry when it was time to leave. 

My junior year had gone and passed, there was no point 

in trying to linger any longer than needed. Four years is plenty of time 

to know a place. To know its crooks and crannies, 

to know its lay and attitudes. 

Tree-lined paths and foggy mornings in graveyards did not deserve my tears, 

only my gratitude and admiration. 

Grand castles on hills and ancient mines under rolling depressions earned my reverence. 

Massive murders of crows soaring through bright blue skies and 

a small unkindness of ravens hopping through flowers under light grey clouds invited my joy.

Creeks and streams, rivers and seas, 

none of these deserved my grief. I didn’t cry. 

I still felt like it though.

This new land is hot. 

This new town is cold. 

I’ve never breathed in dry hot air before,

nor have I seen so much snow in my life. 

I’ve never seen so many raptors circle the sky, heard so many songbirds, 

seen so many deer before in my life. My first time seeing a bobcat was my first week 

in the state. I don’t think I’m ready to say farewell to this place just yet. 

I have yet to pick up antlers. I have yet to greet the rivers with kindness, 

to make friends with the corvids who wake me in the morning. 

I have yet to fully explore town, to indulge in all the delights offered here. 

To walk into every store, to smell every flower. 

I haven’t learned this place, and until I do, 

then any forgiving farewell may be a grief-fill goodbye. 

At least, I think so, anyway.