The Long Goodbye

With thanks to Raymond Chandler

by Lucia Lemieux

I

The missingness of the missing
has a sort of pathos in it,
depending on the kind.

When I miss you, is it because you are away from me?
Because you are dead?
Or because you disappeared off the face of the Earth?

Each scenario has its own melancholy, its distinct pain.
With the first, there is the knowledge that you will return,
with the second there is the finality that you will not.

The third begs the paradoxical question,
the certainty of never knowing. The heart wants closure,
but the soul keeps the window open just in case.

II

Every time I say goodbye after a gathering,
a long-distance visit, a heartfelt telephone chat,
I never imagine that our goodbye might be the last.

We’ll have others, certainly. We plan for the
next reunion, the next race, the next celebration
of anything to avoid the mundanity of our lives

so that joy outweighs the sludge of living.
Lately, there have been too many final goodbyes.
Age should prepare me, but it does not. I don’t want them.

Are you next? Am I? I count those lost this year alone.
Like Brutus, I want to morbidly hug everyone as if it’s the last time:
If we do meet again, we shall smile; if not, then this parting was well made.

III

Children are a series of long goodbyes—the first thing we teach them
is to wave bye-bye before they can talk. We utter silent farewells in stages:
Infancy, the precocious toddler, kindergarten, and all too soon, college grad.

They forge ahead in the world, if we are lucky,
and sometimes move away. Then we have to say goodbye
every time they visit us, or we visit them,

or at the end of a phone conversation.
Sometimes either party is glad to say goodbye
when we know it is temporary,

but how do we ever really know?
Even if we are not praying people, we still pray
that our children outlive us. The alternative is excruciating.

IV

Traveling is a series of goodbyes in many languages.
I’ve learned to say it in Spanish—adios. In French—au revoir.
In Scottish Gaelic—Mar sin leat. And in Israeli Hebrew—הֱיה שלום

I have said goodbye to every American state except one.
Some places I was more than glad to leave—sprawling, drawling Texas,
Scorching, torching Phoenix, and the barren, boring Badlands.

I was eager to say goodbye to my Michigan birthplace,
but when I visit now, I see its beauty and majesty.
They say you cannot go home again. Can you?

I’m a Californian now, through blazes, tempests, and criticism.
We speak of leaving, but I don’t think I could ever say goodbye.
It’s God’s country here, even if I don’t believe in her.

V

So many goodbyes in my life—seventeen apartments, three houses.
Jobs loved or despised or just tolerated for pay.
Relationships lost to death, misunderstanding, indifference.

There’s more life behind than ahead for me,
So many roads left to run, so many left stories to tell,
fences to mend, lessons to learn.

To people past and present, I bid a fond farewell—
The best of you, I shall hold in my heart; the worst of you,
thank you for teaching me to try to find your goodness.

I don’t know when it will be my turn to say that long goodbye,
if it will be hard to let go. So, I will try now, while I still can, with dignity
and tears. In case we never get to meet – or meet again.