The chapter to this part of the book is slowly drawing in to a close. My insides are a tangled web of emotions and physical draining: my heart beats uncontrollably, my stomach sits deep and empty, my head feels disconnected. I am excited yet sad. I feel relief but cowardly. Anxiety is an understatement. Yet my breathing is calm and controlled. My hands steady as I hold the pen. My eyes are the most obvious sign. The tears collect under my chin, leaving a wet chinstrap. As the winds rushes in the window of the mutatu, I can feel my eyelashes drying together, the skin once wet now feels tight. As I watch these things pass by, I wonder if I will ever get to relive it again as it is right now. Of course not, and I just want to crawl inside my remorse and self-pity and cry harder.
I am so uncomfortable at the thought of returning permanently. Even as I say permanently, I wanted to write semi-permanently or for the next several years or even in its defined sense, temporarily (as being the opposite of permanent).
These faces, these eyes that stare back at me, I look at hoping, wishing, that that common thread of humanity, family, needs, presence, are felt. That you and I are not so different. We both love our mothers. We both want long, happy, fulfilling lives. You and I are one in this world and despite the vast chasm of differences; you can still feel that bridge of humanity spanning the gap. I started walking across a long time ago. I pray that you are headed in my direction.
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