Of Leaves and Leaving

Every once in a while, as I sit by my window rising seven stories above the rest of mortals, I catch a glimpse of parrots -bright green, magnificent parrots- flying by, sometimes almost at arms length. I guess it has somewhat trained my eye, because I’m quick to distinguish the “u” shape their wings make as they flap and their distinct crimson patch against the afternoon sky.

Today, while looking out that very window, the corner of my “trained” eye caught a flock as they took off from a tree one or two sreets away, presumably as part of their daily quest for the best spot around. It took me a mere instant to realize they were not birds but dry leaves, pulled off the tree by a gentle wind that was suddenly blowing outside. This, in turn, reminded me of autumn, of time and seasons gone by, of chapters concluded. As I stood there, apparently trying to figure out a way of holding on to cherished moments, I somehow ended up thinking about our upcoming trip, about leaving our kids behind and about how precious time spent with them is. I thought of how Diego is learning one or two new words everyday, how he is beginning to pick up my catch phrases (luckily not the most colorful ones), how everyday he reaches higher and higher places (hence our monthly redecoration). I also thought of my little giant, Pablo, and how every week I look forward to his “Friday Papers”, filled from cover to cover with his beautiful work and excellent grades. I thought of how incredibly proud I am of his performance at school; of his enormous, noble heart; and of the many love notes he has written me.

Sometimes it’s hard even for me to trace back my line of thoughts to its exact orgin. But there I was, staring into the bare branches of a tree that now seemed very distant from where I felt I was. Seconds seemed like whole centuries (at this point Gustavo usually comes and yanks me out of my daydream and into harsh reality by telling me I need to cook lunch or even worse, that lunch is burning). When thinking of pages turned, I try to savour the moment- this sort of mental souvenir from events passed or people met - because many times it’s your only protection when ruthless solitude kicks in and, no matter how crowded your life may seem, you feel singled out and lonely. I embrace those moments of nostalgia, of longing moments and people. I look forward to turning to them now that a whole ocean will separate me from my kids, and all I’ll have to protect myself will be souvenirs, not the ones I’ll bring back, but the ones I’m taking along.