They Call them the Disappeared

“Me llaman el desaparecido | Cuando llega ya se ha ido . . .”

J is gone. He gave the farm the slip in the dark of night.

“J ha desaparecido,” I joked with El Salvadoreno, who, himself, is leaving the day after tomorrow.

It gives me a funny feeling to watch people move through my life, and then leave me behind. This is what I do. It is an odd moment when you realize that observing the actions of another is akin to watching yourself.

I leave people behind. I am the traveler. It is normal for me to be the fellow waving goodbye as I walk away down the Road to anywhere-but-here. It is not usual for people to bide me farewell, as I stand still watching them go.

Or, in J’s instance, give me the slip.

J is gone. El Salvadoreno is going tomorrow — back to El Salvador, a “voluntary” deportation.

I will miss my friends. I see myself standing in front of the old farm house with my hand gyrating in the air. I am waving goodbye. I am staying put.

. . . for now.

This sedentarization period in Maine has scrambled my kaleidoscope of living. I can only hope that when all of the little color jewels set themselves back into place, I will still be gazing upon a similar design.

Or perhaps a more intricate arrangement.

. . . if not, I will just keep spinning the cylinder.

Paths get rocky, sloped, curved, and go errant, but I know that it is myself that decides the heading on the compass . . . I decide to stay now, so that I can go later, with much more than the wind as my only companion.