Bittersweet

 Our daughter was here for a visit. She left yesterday and 25 hours later, arrived home. Tonight as I was making supper, these words started organizing themselves in my head.

Bittersweet

for H after your visit, May 2022

Three night owls

step outside

into a chilly, grey May 

early morning.

The week sped by

overflowing with laughter,

old family jokes, catching up, 

and adding

new memories to the old.

But now we stand,

clawed by the wind,

filling these last few minutes

with small talk,

eyes focused on the curve

of the road in the distance.

Bill is the first to spot it.

‘Here comes the bus,’ he says.

We have just enough time

for hugs and love yous and

so glad you came.

The driver pulls up,

jogs down the stairs

and asks, ‘Just one of you?’

As I nod, the look of gentle kindness

he directs my way

pierces my heart.

As he follows you up the stairs

I remember -- this ritual

is an oft repeated one

on this island, which is so

well-steeped in good-byes.

Through the dark windows

my eyes follow your silhouette,

watching you pick a seat and settle in.

It’s a long ride to the airport.

The door closes. The bus pulls away.

I watch until it crests the hill then

disappears.

Our paths diverged again,

as each of us heads back 

to the everyday lives

which suit us best.

It feels weird for a little while,

the absence. I need

to settle in again.

And yet the ache

of farewell

is tempered by

the joyful knowing

that we are where

we need to be 

and you are

going home to the place 

you have always known 

you belonged. 

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