One solitary beer. That is all that is left in the aftermath of a month of houseguests, travel, hedonistic gluttony, and the nightly aperitif ritual. Cracking it open, the first foamy drops are quickly regurgitated as tears. Tears of relief, of exhaustion, and of loneliness. Of gratefulness, of nostalgia, of terrifying fear. I know that of all of these, exhaustion is the most powerful and I should probably try to sleep off this sudden sturm und drang, but for the first time in weeks, I am not tired. I want to stay awake and wallow in this not completely unpleasant moment.

Hysteria sets in every time I watch someone wave to me from beyond the security checkpoint. Every time I close a taxi door and wait to wave. Every time I watch the train disappear down the tracks. I am meant to be the one that leaves.

I remember saying goodbye to a college boyfriend, one who no longer speaks to me, who had taken Amtrak to come see me one summer weekend. I cried as much when I saw his train leave as I did the night four months later when I broke up with him (again…I need to be the one that leaves) and he put up no resistance (but they are not supposed to let me go!) A woman at the Rochester Train Station, which resembles more of a lean-to now than the beautiful 19th century building that used to stand there, empathized, “Oh, honey” handing me a wad of tissues which could not contain the free-flowing tears and snot that made it impossible for me to drive home.

Perhaps this is reason number infinity for me to get therapy, but I find it to be a sweet part of myself. One of the few remaining pockets of sensitivity hidden amongst my anxiety-ridden neuroticisms and biting wit.

“Every time we say goodbye, I cry a little / Every time, we say goodbye, I wonder why a little / Why the Gods above us, who must be in the know / Think so little of us, they allow you to go…”