I’ve called Santa Clara home since December 2, 2016.

Abuelita, Clara and Rosario are all part of my story now, and me a part of theirs. And I know how hard it is going to hurt for them because I am leaving their home, and I’ll leave a part of it empty. And my rent money helped with their expenses so it’s also a financial consideration.

I woke up on Tuesday with a long list of things to do: I had to take diplomas to different teachers who achieved their five sessions. I had to say a million goodbyes. And I had to pack all of my things and get rid of trash and hope for greatness in this next life. Tuesday was the last market day, and I walked through it briskly and told my usual vendor friends that tomorrow I would leave, para siempre. The same responses: “Quedate hombre, que no te vayas…. Busca su buen hombre aquí en Guatemala… Vamos a quedarnos triste cuando te vas..” I was like a broken record and so were they.

I delivered a diploma to Profe Miguel and sat with his parents to say goodbye. I asked for a photo at the end. I don’t know either of them very well but I always passed them on the street on the way to Barrio San Antonio. His dad really liked to talk and his mom sat and chimed in at points.

The next day would be my last. Was I ready to leave? I knew I wasn’t. I knew I was less ready to see my host family cry… And to pack up my bags and leave the three strong women who I have come to call home.

Meanwhile my heart’s strung about like silly string on an unsuspecting victim at summer camp. My future: Tucson. My dreams: Write a book, continue to live abroad, teach Spanish. My present: Pueblo, intermittent internet and Dr. Pimple Popper on youtube to numb my heart and distract my sad brain, Close of Service Approaching. My relationship status: Grieving. My Near Future: Travel ten days in Guatemala with good friend. My In-Two-Weeks Future: School, Debt, Culture Shock, USA.

I tried to find my socio Byron but he wouldn’t pick up my phone call and he wasn’t at his desk. So I left my backpack in his chair and sent a text: “Your recuerdo is on your desk. Thank you for everything.”

He called me an hour later, said he would come say goodbye in the morning. “OK” I thought. Mostly doubtful that he would pass through anyway.

My host family prepared lunch for us. It was my goodbye lunch. I wrapped their present, a Shutterfly book with two years of pictures, and stuck a foam heart to the wrapping. The food was really tasty: fried chicken, guac, potato salad. This meal is no small feat on a gas stove and even more sweat and tears over a woodburning one. I prepared my words of gratitude and read them to each lady in K’iche’. Abuelita didn’t cry, she was strong (and hard of hearing, maybe she’s on to something….), but Clara and Rosario were emotional during my words. I saw their eyes glass over which is how I’ve looked for the past two months in site: slippery eyed.

My host mom and sister really liked the book. I was proud of it, as if I was seeing it for the first time, even though I designed it. After all of the emotion of lunch, and all of the running around ticking things off my list in between responding to more “Where are you going”s, I bought myself a ginormous, over-the-top ice cream cone, covered in chocolate and nuts, and walked the streets in the name of self-care eating my giant ice cream. Goodbyes are exhausting and so is grief.

In the evening I went to the next door neighbor’s house and reminded them that tomorrow would be my last. We hugged, took pictures. I don’t like how I look in any of them. I left a photo of me, Sulmey and Avital with Avital and Doña Juana asked me for her copy. I rolled my eyes: these people all live in the same clump of connected bedrooms. I cannot be responsible for multiple photos under the same roof. I can hardly be responsible for anything at this moment except holding it together. They told me not to cry but I did. I am a marathon crier in 2019. There should be a tear-calculator app on phones.

Wednesday I leave, 2pm. My bags are packed and I have left almost everything that means something to me with someone else. Except for my hairdryer, traje típico and computer.

And on my last night, my former gentleman caller was on the forefront of my mind (but he usually is). And I looked at the blanket that he bought for me and sent with Abby: “Use it and think of me” he said. And I looked at that beautiful blanket and I picked up the phone. I didn’t know what I was doing except that I was lonely, sad, and my whole apartment echoed.

I didn’t get through.

I didn’t sleep well. I kept rearranging my things and looking at the contents, wondering what more I could cull. Everything wasn’t important but it had some sort of meaning to me, and I had to look at every single thing and assess its significance, its weight, its size, its future purpose, and give it a new home or tuck it away in my brimming suitcase.

It’s March 26, 2019. My last full day in Santa Clara La Laguna. My last night sleeping on my bed, listening to the roosters and tuk-tuks fly by my window underscored by the relentless music of the Evangelical church. The soundtrack of my last night in my home, accompanied by the steady, disoriented beat of my heart.