Goodbye

A layer of frost crusted the fresh decay of leaves that, by the evening, would continue to rot in the late October mist. The wind in the dark was nightmarish. It brought shivers to the trees, whose sick leaves would slowly dance to the ground, awaiting the night’s nip of winter. 

Like the trees I often trembled, alone in the dark and blind with nervousness. Stumbling up stairs, I would enter a bright room fresh with the rousing exuberance of youths I did not know. On opposite sides of the ballroom, the boys in their blue suits pretended to be men while the girls glistened in a resplendent rainbow of dresses. 

This was etiquette class. I learned how to waltz. 

The stiff clutch of my tie eased when I finally managed to approach a girl to dance during the first lesson. The question, sinking in my throat, at last burst forth frantically. My eagerness became our awkward foxtrot. She wore a taut black dress that complimented her smoothe, dark hair. Below her soft and secretive eyes, her face was scattered with rosette freckles all over. She leapt like a leopard into the night, forever disappearing from me––nameless. 

Each week, I danced with a new girl. I practiced introducing myself respectfully, meeting her elegant eyes, shaking her hand gracefully, moving my feet, touching my left hand to her shoulder, touching my right hand to her hip, swaying, dazzling. 

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At dawn, the dim glow of the moon was fleeting, the stars fading. The soft snow slept on the driveway like the powdered sugar that dusted my breakfast. The avenue was still, and everyone was inside still asleep. The wind yawned, releasing a sweet puff of life that wandered freely. The sun kissed its warmth on my neck. The cold embraced me too. 

At Christmastime, my family would drive ten hours to visit my grandmother. She was a round woman with a bullous nose, sharp eyebrows, and defiant eyes. She would summon me and my brother with a sputtering yell––boys, the food is ready––her way of saying that she loved us. 

The suitcases huddled ready in the shut trunk. The muffled sighs of the car and the blue fumes rising upward became one with the cool winter sky. The icicles stuck to the edges of the undercarriage melted into a puddle of slush black as charcoal. The car’s fresh leather seats were warm, causing the frost on my window to melt away and reveal the figure of my grandmother, small and motionless in the frame of the door, watching us leave. She was waiting for our promise to return again. Goodbye. 

In our youth, we are taught how to greet one another. It is an act of maturity, an act of integration into the world, an act of becoming. We learn to be actors who play our parts with projected voices and firm, dramatic motions. Our masks and costumes are charming. We follow the script.We perform ourselves. 

Yet no one ever teaches us how to say goodbye. Perhaps, letting go must be a truth then: a testament to our character, to our love, to the depth of our souls. We do not need to go to school or to ballroom dancing to learn how to say goodbye. It already glows in our hearts. 

Ultimately, life is an act of letting go. It is standing alone in the open doorway, the cold creeping inside, and silently watching those you love leave for new adventures. It is welcoming the uncertainty of when you will see that person again. It is the comforting pain of their absence, and the sweetness of your longing. It is the fateful pleasure of the unknown.