The first of many last suppers
A tale about saying goodbye, over and over again
Saying goodbye is hard enough. Saying goodbye for keeps cuts deeper and hurts longer than the uninitiated could ever imagine. There was no easy or painless way of telling our parents we were leaving. Leaving. It had to be done in person. Such news is not mentioned in passing or over the phone. First, we’d tell my parents, then my in-laws. We decided to share the news with them over a meal.
What better way was there than to break bread with those you love and break their hearts at the same time? I anticipated their shocked expressions, scanning our faces for affirmation that it was all only a silly joke, a delayed April Fools’ prank; only to read the truth. You’re leaving, really leaving? Not Namibia which is at least only on the other side of the Kalahari Desert, but Canada? Across the Atlantic. Isn’t that an endless wasteland of frozen tundra tucked in under the North Pole? How far exactly? Sixteen-and-a-half-thousand kilometres? How much is that in miles? Miles sounds kinder.
The word emigration never left our lips, and it would take years before we’d roll the word with hesitation on our tongues, before allowing it to slip out.
No one prepared me for the loss I’d experience — a loss somewhat similar to having a limb torn off without…
