And there you are. In a small village in Poland, where I am stumbling through teaching English to 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th graders, who know far more English than I do Polish. After 10 days, I can only say Good Morning with confidence.
You were there when I caught the smile of an 11-year-old boy who didn’t think he knew the word for bored (I hope it wasn’t my lesson), but got it right, and we smiled at each other with pride. Smiles have no language barrier and can sometimes communicate far more than words. Especially Polish words.
You were there on the 15-minute drive to the school when a ladybug slowly made its way across one of my thighs, stopped on the other, and stayed there for the duration of our drive. You were there when a small cloud of yellow butterflies flew in front of me as I approached the school door on my first day. Seeing them felt significant because the night before, during an almost sleepless night, I had a dream that stayed with me. A stranger approached me and told me to pay attention to yellow butterflies circling because they are a gift, and I needed to know about them. The next morning, they were there, just as he said; they circled in front of me, and I paid attention as I clenched my teeth to hold back the tears and made my way to the school door.
You were with me when I found the Polish coin on the back patio during a lesson, and it felt like finding a dime. The signs keep coming. Signs that to many may seem like ordinary, everyday occurrences, but when you have lost what feels like a part of yourself, your soul, and your heart, those occurrences become lifelines. I slipped the coin into my pocket, and when I got back to my room, I placed it next to a picture of you and your brothers that is on my bedside table. The date on the coin was the year you died, not the year you were born. I had hoped for the opposite.
You have been with me at the end of every workday, when I retreat to my room, exhausted. That feeling of mental fatigue, braided with accomplishment and curiosity, takes me back to our volunteer days in Perú and the recaps we’d do at the end of the day, in our room at the volunteer house. We’d almost always end up in tears because something had happened that made us sad that day. Something sad had always happened. We’d sit on our lower bunk beds, a stretched-arm distance apart, and through the tears I’d reach out and hold your hands while wondering if I had made the right decision in bringing you to Perú. You were only 18. Then you’d say something wise, and worldly, and beyond your years, and I’d know we were in the right place at the right time, and what a beautiful gift it was to be sharing the experience.
I remember our bunk bed recap of the two young children whose caskets we sat in front of in the small living room in Villa el Salvador, one of Lima’s poorest districts. They had died in the fire, and when the mother learned we were in the neighborhood doing home visits, she invited us into her home. This grieving mother, who we had never met, ushered us into the small room and offered us chairs, less than a foot length away from the two small caskets. As the only non-Catholics in the room, with call-and-response prayers being said in Spanish, we weren’t sure what to do, so we did what felt right. We bowed our heads and shed tears for the two children whom we had never met. Those memories of sitting before two caskets that were so small it took us a moment to realize what they were would be the first ones to surface when someone would ask us, “What was the hardest part?”
Immersing ourselves in the joys and the hardships of another culture had a lasting impact, an impact that is hitting me hard today, as I sit alone in my small but cozy room and do my recount of the day by myself. The memories we made 17 years ago in a poor district of Lima hit hard, and though the work is very different, the emotions feel the same. Because you’re not here to help me unwind the day’s tangles, my touchstone has become my words, the scarf I wrap around my shoulders like a hug, and the collection on my nightstand – three photos, a heart-shaped rock, a rose quartz bracelet, and a Polish coin. It’s you and your presence in your overwhelming absence that make me smile and cry at the same time. It’s you, my darling girl. It’s you.
I know you’re here, maybe even more than I am on some days because this is hard. It’s rewarding and inspiring, but it is hard. I feel your presence and your words. There you are, my guardian angel. Just go, Mama.
I’m going, my darling girl. I’m going.