We had coffee with the Girimkils recently. Girimkil was
telling us about the different foreigners who have lived in our house, and in
this area, in the past. We could probably name ten for you, from the stories
we’ve heard. The most famous: Don, Sue, Anna Marie. Girimkil was saying Alloe,
Arow, Ammo…Luam?, seeking Luam’s help, who offered, “Aaron.” Yes, yes, Aaron.
And the story continued. I briefly wondered, Will Luam remind him of Danayit
and Daniel some day? and brushed it away like a fly.
He told us about a group of four foreigners who lived here
for six months. When they were leaving, saying goodbye, they didn’t want to get
in the car. They eventually had Girimkil join them in the car for part of the
drive, before they would bid him farewell.
He then told us, in Tigrign-lish and after a few tries, that
Meron would go inside our “materials.” He meant luggage. I searched my Tigrigna
vocabulary, wondering how I could express If only.
If I think about it, I cry. So I don’t really think about
it. One night we lay in bed, talking about what our final week in Adwa might
look like. Gosh, can you imagine how excited we’ll be? This line is a
staple when we talk about summer 2014. I followed it with something about how
devastated I’ll be at the same time. I mentioned leaving Meron, and her not
fully realizing that we won’t be coming back. How we’ve given up two years in
the states with Zach, but starting next year, we’ll have Zach forever—and yet
it’s possible that we may never see Meron again. I’ve learned we shouldn’t talk
about things like this at night. I cry into my pillow, and wake up with puffy
eyelids.
I’m not a very present person. When I’m in Adwa, I want to
be in Willoughby. And I know myself, how I operate: one day, in Willoughby,
I’ll be missing Adwa. My future self will give anything to snap her fingers and
be back with the cobblestone, bajajes, curious kids, injera.
I’m trying to be more present. At Peace Corps Mid-Service
Conference, we wrote letters to ourselves, to open when we leave. We included
goals for the next year. My first one was Eat more Ethiopian food.
My sister has been sending me lists of the words Zach says,
and the words they’re working on. Down. Tigger. Vroom (that’s Uncle Charlie).
When I read the list of names he’s saying, I started crying. He doesn’t know
us.
These are the things that keep me from being present. So I
remind myself, constantly: Two years are brief when juxtaposed with an
entire lifetime. So enjoy it.
This is the kid whose bottom bunk was always decorated with
year-round countdown calendars, next to the Kenny Lofton poster. 100 days until
Christmas. 100 days until vacation. I’m always looking to the next thing.
Nowadays it’s: Two semesters until we’re back home. One year until we start
trying for a baby. All the while unknowingly wishing away this precious
opportunity we have right now.
I can see it: Two years from now, we’ll have trouble finding
a babysitter. We need a night away, just the two of us. I’ll look at Daniel and
remind him. Remember Adwa? Remember when school started our second year, and as
I walked there alone, I realized it was the first time we had physically been
in two different places—in four months?
Four months. Who else is given such a gift? Married
astronauts in the same shuttle, that’s who. Them, and retired lovebirds. Some
days, spending hours upon hours with my favorite person—knowing that some
American spouses cross paths in the night, wishing they had more time—I find
myself uttering Lou Gehrig’s words. We’re the luckiest. We know it’s too good
to be true, we know what real life with real jobs is like.
And yet I long for home, to be there. Instead.
Sometimes it feels like just another countdown. When
visiting a friend in Mekele awhile ago, we saw a stack of Post-It notes on her
wall. It said 18. What’s this? we asked. How many months we have left,
she said. It’s hanging beside photos of her sister, her mom. She pulls a note
away on the first of each month. Sometimes living here doesn’t feel like real
life: we don’t have 9 to 5’s, we don’t have salaries. I’ve said this before—it
feels like a bookmark, a hiatus of helping. But it’s not a hiatus. This is our life.
Be present. It’s what I’m trying for. After the coffee
ceremony, Meron and I played in the yard. I followed her around our house,
flapping our fake wings (which were later symbolized by bushels of flowers),
cawing and taking turns singing. I echoed her Tigrigna songs, awfully. She
echoed You are My Sunshine and We Wish You a Merry Christmas, impressively,
adorably, awfully. I gave her piggybacks. We skipped in circles.
It had been a few weeks since Meron came over to color and
read. So we asked her to. She came the next day at lunchtime. We were in the
middle of a West Wing episode when we heard her knock. We could have said Not
now, come back later. It would’ve been easy: we were reaching the episode’s
climax—Congress was about to pass a bill the Democrat party wouldn’t have liked,
or something. But it would have been a later regret, a way to not be present.
She came in and we read, we colored, we dunked biscuits in our tea.
She and Daniel have a few inside jokes. Whenever she knocks
on the door, Daniel’s eyes scan the yard at his height. “Man? Man iyu?” (Who?
Who is it?) I know when she’s here, when he’s about to let her in, because I
can hear her quiet Ana, ana, ana. (It’s me.) They also have this puffing
game, between the two of them. Daniel puffs a big breath of air into one of my
ears, backs away quickly, and points to Meron. Meron puffs the tiniest breath
of air into one of my ears, backs away quickly, and points to Daniel. They go
back and forth, blaming each other, giggling; it can go on for awhile.
We’re going to miss her, a lot. I once daydreamed about
bringing her back with us. Not seriously, but it didn’t stop me. Meron would
hate America, Daniel said. But we could take her to a proper dentist,
I said. Meron would hate any place where there was no Misilal. (Her
mom.) He’s absolutely right.
Relationships are hard. I’m reading a book right now with
one of those characters, you know, who are “afraid to love again.” Three
out of five chick flicks, and it has always seemed silly to me. I assume that
sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life. No one really says that, do they? I
don’t want to get hurt again, so I can’t love you.
People may not say it, but we do feel it. In different,
less-cliché ways. In a masked form, so we don’t even realize it.
In another late-night conversation, I cried about Waco,
about missing Waco, about Adwa becoming just another Waco. (For the record, I
cry easily. This doesn’t mean I’m depressed about Waco. It means, simply, that
I’m talking about Waco, hence I’m crying about it; that’s how great Waco was.)
Time passes too quickly. People and places come and go, and far too quickly,
they become the past. Just like that.
So, be present, be present. Be present.
J. Grigsby Crawford, in his memoir The Gringo, writes
about his Peace Corps experience:
And here
you are, measuring your life not in coffee spoons, but in baskets of laundry
done by hand, walks down the dusty road to swim in the river, and cold showers
that are good cold showers because it’s hot as hell and from the bathroom you
can look through the crack between the brick and the corrugated tin and see the
green foothills surrounding the small valley.
You measure
it in Saturdays spent drinking bad beer—except it’s good beer because it’s
light and cold and you can drink it in the shade and watch the grainy TV in the
corner while the women behind the counter ask you questions about the world….
There is a
calendar on the wall and turning the page over to a new month is nothing if not
a satisfying and glorious feeling. But then you feel bad about counting down
the months or weeks or days because you realize that this is real life, and
counting the days is like marching toward death.
Our last day in Waco was hard. It was our first home. Our
home away from home, just the two of us, so far away from family and old
friends. I stood in our empty living room, scanning memories, trying not to
cry, trying not to think of bringing our kids to this apartment some day to
reminisce. I spent a few minutes in each empty room, saying goodbye, savoring
last glances. I stood for awhile at the doorstep, and wouldn’t let Daniel get
in the car until we took lots of final photos.
We drove our packed-to-the-brim car and van to Seth and
Julie’s house, for our final Waco moments. It was a Wednesday. It was Bible
study. I tried being present in that hour, tried forgetting that in an hour and
a half, this would be the past, and we would be on the road. I scanned the
room: Seth, Julie, Cameron, Wendy, Heather, DeAnn. Our lovely friends who I was
hoping very much could just get inside our “materials.” Our luggage.
In some ways, it was a blessing driving two separate vehicles
from Texas to Indiana. We stood in Seth and Julie’s drive, hugged our friends,
and hit the road. In another car, Daniel didn’t have to listen to me crying. I cried
our entire way out of the city, out of the county. At stoplights I took photos
of street signs. I resented every turn away from the place, and looked in my
rearview mirror maybe too often, too long, to be responsible. I prayed, and
dripped down my chin, into my lap, thanking God for such a place. For great
friends. For an amazing first home. For a church under a bridge (which we also
drove past, where I probably nearly collided with a car or a pole for craning
my neck in goodbye).
This is why relationships are hard. Sometimes it seems like
maybe it would be easier if you just didn’t let yourself get too close. If you
refused to become attached to people, because you knew what it would feel like
to leave them.
I ran the 4 x 400 in track; I was the last runner, the
closer. With just two seasons left in Ethiopia, I feel we’re at the point three
or four strides away from the final curve of the track. After a few strides,
it’s time to sprint. I know the loop well—we’re close, I can feel it. I partly
envy the volunteers who really can’t wait to get out of this place. Who’ve felt
this way from the moment they arrived. Who may not have friends, family really,
as close as the Girimkils.
One of my best friends, Elizabeth, 2nd grade
sidekick through high school, sat at my kitchen table one night, maybe in 8th
grade. We were having a late night snack. She named her Pop Tart and started
playing with it. A bit of time passed and she still hadn’t eaten. Well, I
named it. She looked down at it, ashamed that her joke was becoming a
little too real. It’s kinda hard to eat it after that. People can get
attached to anything. We attach, it’s what we do. It’s even crazier when
it’s people. Relationships are hard in that way.
This is why I have to be present right now. As much
as I try to brush it away, a time will come when we’re putting our last pieces
of luggage into the college car. When I’m biting my lip, trying to look away so
they don’t see, and have to physically pull myself around to give them final
hugs. We’ll be a few bags of mini-pretzels and a few glasses of tomato juice
deep before I can brush away the tears and start smiling about entering
American airspace.
It’s not natural for me to live in the present. It’s natural
for me to look ahead—to say in Waco, How can a place not have Autumn? I
can’t wait until we’re back in the Midwest for Autumn. I can’t wait until we’ll
live near family, and can have our parents over for dinner—and then be
shocked, devastated, when it’s actually time to leave that place and go have
Autumn at home. It’s illogical, maybe insane. I never learn.
So, knowing what I know about myself, I’m trying not to say I
can’t wait to get home unless I couple it with We should ask Meron to
play today. We’re really going to miss her.
