Goodbye.

Lost in translation, I suppose. When I say goodbye, it is always lost in translation. Maybe because I can never really say bye, even if I intend to. I don't know how goodbyes function. What purpose does it serve? Appreciation? 'Thank you for being in my life,' and then what? 'Sorry, you had to go'? It feels like a dead end to the road you want to ride on forever. But I said goodbye, six whole times.
I find myself at the airport. Seven o' clock in the foggy sunshine. We walk to a series of empty plastic orange chairs. She tells me, again, she wishes to find herself in that school, up in the hills, where the weather is foreign and always will be. 'Best friend, don't leave me to tackle the world by myself,' forms in my head but, no. It'll only make things worse. I break my remaining courage in two. Give her the bigger piece, she needs it. 'You'll do great there. Stop with the tears, you fool. Have the time of your life.' One.
I am in my childhood dance class, sitting at the foot of my guru's sturdy feet. Feet made tough with years of dance steps, nails painted red. My very first dance teacher is leaving forever. 'Thank you for making me fall in love with dance. I hope, one day, I can make you proud' should have been added to 'I hope you keep dancing after you go to Australia.' But I was too young then to know the value of goodbyes. Two.
I see myself tracing the steps my baby cousin leaves in the pine needle pathway. He jumps on me, giggling. His maternal grandparents say he was never this happy, it was like he met me for the first time. I wish I could have seen him grow into a teenager, an adult. But some things never work out the way we want them to. So, I lie, 'Next time I visit you, I'll bring you your favorite toy, okay? Always smile, for me.' I see him waving me goodbye with a crooked-toothed smile when my taxi speeds away. Three.
We sit somewhere away from the whole party. Watching the cars and lights from the roof. I don't want to let go, but that should be for the best. His and mine. I give him a sketch book with a mixtape stuck on it, where the phrase 'Because you love music and painting' is printed in my handwriting. Somewhere in our relationship, I grew a little. Hurting someone is worse than letting go. I hear The Smiths playing in the background. 'I'll always care for you.' I walk away and don't look back. Four.
I hold on to his cold wrinkled hand as he lies in his bed, staring at the brown curtains. He doesn't say much anymore. And even if I don't want to, I'm counting days to the inevitable. He is more than a grandfather to me. He is my compass. I kiss his forehead and whisper in his ear, 'You will always be my symbol of strength. I need you to get well.' Five.
I am five years old, sitting in my room. I caress my dying rabbit's forehead to give her any kind of comfort possible in her last gasping minutes. I see her tiny mouth and front teeth twitching a little. Whiskers stop moving. My first pet. My first death experienced. A scared part of me cries her heart out. My rabbit first taught me how death works, what letting go feels like. 'Thank you for everything. Goodbye.' Six.