“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
A.A. Milne
Goodbyes are a lot like New Year’s Eve—not the goofy hats and confetti, but that sneaky, inevitable tick-tock toward something new.
They’re the quiet, reflective moments when we find ourselves at the crossroads of past and future, like a slow-motion countdown to both endings and beginnings.
Farewells are a mixed bag, though.
You’ve got your casual ones, the ‘see you laters’ you toss at neighbors like you’re throwing Frisbees. Then come the dramatic goodbyes, dripping with enough tears to make any rom-com proud. And finally, the profound ones—the deep, soul-hugging goodbyes that stick with you, echoing like the last note of a song that doesn’t quite fade.
“How lucky am I?”
It’s a thought that always bubbles up when I think about my cousin—sorry, “brother-in-spirit”—Javier from Chile. His last visit still feels like that sunrise we stayed up to meet, trading stories like poker chips until the first light hit. There we were, sprawled across the living room, lost in a marathon of tales and laughter, each story upping the ante. With every shared memory and chuckle, there was this unspoken understanding, a bittersweet awareness mingling in the air like the first light of dawn. It was a poignant blend of “see you later” and “why does it have to end,” underlined by the realization that soon, he’d be more than just a phone call away, back to being a distant dot on the globe.
Goodbyes are like family heirlooms—full of emotional baggage, with the same sentimental dusting of memories. They’re not just moments; they’re keepsakes that live rent-free in your heart. Think of your grandmother’s cookie jar, not just a container, but a vault of sweet, flour-dusted memories. Or consider the old family photo album, each page a portal to a time when hairstyles were questionable, but the joy was palpable. These goodbyes, they’re like turning the pages of that album, a nostalgic journey through the snapshots of life.
“How lucky am I?”
And yet, goodbyes aren’t always grand, soul-stirring epics. Sometimes, they’re as subtly poignant as… wait for it… the final episode of “The Wonder Years.” Growing up, it was more than a series—it was a weekly gathering, a family ritual where laughs (and tears) were shared as generously as popcorn. Saying goodbye felt like parting with a childhood chum—the kind who knew all your embarrassing secrets and still stuck around.
“How lucky am I?”
But there were other farewells, the kind that sneak up with the stealth of a cat on a midnight prowl. Picture my 18th birthday at Antonio’s, the Mexican joint that was less a restaurant and more a shrine to my teenage disasters in Brownsville. There, memories were dished up with a side of charro beans—culinary postcards from a messier, more nacho-stained past.
That evening, which I mistook for just another birthday serenade by off-key waiters, was actually my covert adios to a town I knew like the back of my hand—soon to be traded for the uncharted territories of college life. Antonio’s, with its salsa stains and echoes of laughter, stood as a gastronomic beacon of simpler times.
“How lucky am I?”
But the real heavyweight of goodbyes was for Tata, my grandfather from Chile. I can still smell the overpowering scent of airport coffee, like it was trying to mask all the unspoken emotions floating around. I was preparing to board a flight, leaving behind my mother’s homeland and the old man with a heart full of stories. He was in his 90s, a delightful mix of wisdom, wit, and his own brand of quirkiness.
As I hugged him, I heard him chuckle and say his classic catchphrase, “Buf, buf… para los búfalos.” That phrase, odd as it was, became the symphony of our shared moments… and I realized it might be the last time I’d hear it from him.
How lucky I am.
Life, it seems, is a sequence of such moments. We welcome new experiences, just as we bid farewell to old ones. Goodbyes, though bittersweet, remind us of the beauty of having something or someone wonderful in our lives. They become the footprints of our journey.
So, while sometimes goodbyes mark a final chapter, they are often pauses. Pauses that allow us to reflect, remember, and relive. They are the reminders of times we laughed, cried, celebrated, and—above all—loved.
And with that, my friends, here’s a gentle nod until our paths cross again. May each of your goodbyes bring forth a memory as flavorful as a dish from Antonio’s and as cherished as the moments with my Tata.
