Sayonara

I’m going to tell you my story, or at least, part of it. It starts August 12, 1999, on a very cold day in Bogotá, Colombia, as I close my room’s door for the last time in a house where I had been, well, my entire life. I kiss my dog goodbye, his eyes are red and teary, the veterinarian said he was feeling the drastic change that was unfolding in our household. He stays, we leave.

I pack lightly, to imply I’ll be back. I am not. I gather with my friends a few days before then, some, I will never see again, so I remember their faces and their voices. I go back to our childhood memories, the time we spent together in the same classroom, dreading biology lectures, waiting every day for recess to start and never end. They stay, I leave. My journey is interrupted and there is a sense of incompleteness with them.

I walk around the house, there is an internal garden where the birds sing. I can feel the light coming through the living room, into the staircase, and up my room. I look through the window and stare at the neighborhood‘s new boy, I like him and his rottweiler. He sees me and waves back. I want to hold on to this forever, but I turn back and close the heavy curtains instead. He stays, I leave. My heart pulsates.

We rush to the airport, my mom is impatient and restless, my dad is absent in spirit, he seems numb. He stays, we leave. Sayonara. My sister is a rebel, she owns the world, she wants to escape, fly away. And I am just there, existing in silence. With a one-way ticket, we arrive in Florida. The streets are wide and the sky is bright. The drive is long and with no return. I turn 15 in 5 days. It’s an odd beginning to a whole new life.