Yet Another Goodbye
In three days’ time, we’ll don our backpacks and finally board our flights home. At the moment, I don’t know what to write; there are so many things to think about, and — for now, at least — not enough space or time to express it all. The past few days, however, have been spent at a beachside house where we’ve done a lot of reflection about our time in Brazil, what it meant to us and how we’ll bring it back home.
Whilst I find the right words to close the experience, I thought I’d share a poem I wrote after my first real goodbye: when we found out we were leaving Candeal and, soon after, Salvador. I wrote it one rainy morning after an early walk to the gym.
Walking Through Candeal at 5:50AM on the 21st of February 2017
Today the world woke up with
light-bursts and thunder-cracks and
rain running through the streets like
your tears fell down your
Thursday morning cheeks: desperately,
and not knowing where to go.
The sky sits like the cat watching
its kittens scavenge in the trash.
Down the road the bricks in the fountain
have cracked and no-one comes
to fix them. Who are you but
a passerby with a capacity to love
passing things? Stale water falls
from metal roofs in a melody. This morning,
someone is singing. The man waits
outside the market to buy bread, which will
be made again and again like
a memory. Someone blesses the day.
The concrete is calmed by the storm.
It is quiet and grey, but today
it asks to be different. Wet. Perhaps