You know who you are.
You came into my room last August and I was still sweeping up the dusty pinfeathers left behind by those who came before you.
Today, I felt like I was at the amanecida (all nighter) last night / this morning, though there is exactly zero chance that would ever happen. Nevertheless, I’ve been running on fumes roughly since you started presentations in mid-May. I knew this was coming. I’ve done it every year for so many years that I should be used to the end by now. So I watched you drag in today, pale and barely showered, your eyelids drooping through what would otherwise be a pretty engaging day of stories. You looked like I have felt these last three weeks. Drained, exhausted, hungover in the traditional sense, and in some cases in the more mundane lack of sleep. I watched you slog in, and tried my best to take it in stride, as I often do. Like you, I am utterly and completely exhausted.
But today was not just any old day. Today was the last day. Yes, I’ll see you next week in our final official meeting, but by then the routines will have changed already and the dynamic won’t be the same. You will still be you, and I will still be me, but there will be this underlying change in the way you see yourself, the way you see me. That’s what’s supposed to happen.
You were a little offended, I could tell, that I’m not “in love” with you as I was with the last, and I didn’t explain well, I know. English has its limitations. So let me try it this way: sí te quiero, pero más, te amo. It’s that kind of emotional subtlety that my native language doesn’t hold – alas.
I don’t really know what you see when you look at me, though you have tried to tell me: patient, strong, intelligent, non-judgmental, comfortable, happy (in spite of ten thousand things), a mentor, a friend, a listener, benevolently powerful, genuine, at ease, authentic, passionate, part of you. I guess we can never really see ourselves through another’s eyes because I see very little of what is on your list (ok, intelligent and patient, maybe) in myself. Still, it was nice of you to say so, and I will try my best to notice and at the very least maintain those qualities. Maybe I can even add a few others in the years to come.
And I have lived so much with you in this short time: university essays, recommendation letters, hanging out with Beowulf and Chaucer and Hamlet and the Romantics, new loves, old loves, unrequited loves, decisions about yourself, your beliefs, your direction, fights with authority in many shapes, recognition of grave hurts you didn’t let yourself feel before, losses of friends and loved ones – to age, ideological and personal changes, even death. I won’t take credit for the fine things you have discovered and take with you because I can’t; I’m glad, though, to have been a part of this time in your life and I’m more than a little sad to see you go. It has been a powerful, terrifying, exciting, horrible, wonderful year. I am hard-pressed to let you go, to say goodbye.
But go we must. We will meet again. Or we will not. Either way, the energy of this day could only be held today. A little firefly (luciernaga) in my hand that I must now release to the wilds, lest it lose its light forever. You will do well and you will be happy and successful if you decide to be – even if none of those things turns out to fit into the picture you have painted for yourself today.
Whatever else may happen between now and the next time we meet, know that I hold the light and the hope you brought to me this year fondly in my heart. I will remember (even if I decide to do nothing about it) that it’s not too late, that lessons can still be learned – and taught. So take wing my little lightning bug and show the way through the forests of night. I’ll be watching for you.
With great love and affection – Ms. H