Somehow

Tonight, I repeated things like, “We’ll be back in two months,” and “This isn’t goodbye.”

I taught Krysten how to box step. I sang Megan a song. I blew bubbles that landed whole on the grass in the Greenway. I danced in the fountains. Jamie jumped into my arms. Jo got a semi-lewd greeting. Dan offered to drop his Rs for me. Angie got her feet wet for me. Shannon renamed us Person A and Person B. Steven helped me navigate a crowded saint’s feast. Tim brought a watermelon and cut it with a Leatherman. Lindsay reminded us of our city’s marketable history. Greta reasoned that city parks are unquestionably odd. Janaka and Randolph rubbed Celan tattoos. Karyn related how she recently punched a car, which prompted the story about the time Randolph punched a cab on School St and a car in Harvard Square. Colin suggested Cafe Vittoria. Randolph walked me home.

Oddly, it was Lisa that made me cry.

We didn’t see each other—she stopped by when I’d run home—but she left a gift, a recognizable memento. A thing that says nothing louder than Boston. I was so upset that I missed her (because I haven’t seen her in months), but if I’d seen that any sooner, I’d have cried all the more and I didn’t want to cry tonight.

Because it’s not goodbye.

We’ll be back in two months.

So it isn’t goodbye.

We’ll be back in two months.

It isn’t goodbye.

It just isn’t goodbye.

It can’t be.