… whether you like it or not.
Many people take parting well. I don’t.
This fantastic woman is going away and I am sad. I haven’t known her even a year. And I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I have actually met with her. But her friendship to me is proof of the fact that you don’t need to spend a lot of time or know a person too long before you fall in love with them. And she is tremendously easy to fall in love with. Her intelligence, warmth, strength, precision, creativity, generosity and her immensely lovely smile are just some of the things that I look up to. But I won’t talk about her too much and embarrass her (Hi, Suburban!). This post, in part, is to say bye to one of the most wonderful women I have had the fortune to meet but also to talk about parting and what it means to me.
When I was in my teens, I left airports without feeling a tinge of sadness at who I was leaving back. The only time I remember crying (until a few years ago) is when my uncle had come to visit us when I was nine or 10, and he had the cutest baby ever. We just spent a few days together and I remember being very upset that such a gorgeous baby was leaving. I remember being puzzled by it as well because, you see, I was never overly fond of babies. Since then I don’t remember crying ever when I left someone back.
But in the past two years, every time I have left someone I love very much back, I’ve found myself sniffling and going all teary; feeling truly and deeply sad for leaving to wherever I was going, even though that might be a more exciting place, with more for me to do. And it’s not just a little cry of parting, it’s a huge well of (misplaced?) sorrow that comes at me in waves and that which I have to bite back so as to not let it wash me in my tears and scare the crap out of the other person. Because, seriously, imagine going away somewhere wondering how I’ll cope because I am bawling for no apparent reason. It looks fake as hell when you see it, because who cries so much at a parting, right? So I don’t cry even though I mean every atom of the tears that I spout.
Parting many times means the promise of meeting again. But I don’t want promises. I want to be around that person till they get sick of me, or the other way round. And in the lucky even that getting-sick-of doesn’t happen, then I want to be around that person till I know I’ll be okay without them. Selfish? Some.