Oh What a Week We Had...

Oh, such a hard week we had--but this afternoon La Professoressa went into that familiar mode--preparing for one of her international trips--rushes to the bank, to her office for last minuted needed papers, to La Manana for fruit to last me two weeks, and most importantly of all, one last visit with Richard, her adored chiropractor to prepare her back for the 20 hour flight. Richard with his magic fingers and kind heart who knows every one of her wandering bones. Back home, I iron her just decided on must have shirts while she packs for her transition from Australian summer to British winter. Then Cello and I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her deft manipulations, a master packer she is--as she said, many Australians learn this art at an early age--so quickly, so wisely considered, one medium seized suitcase, one carry one bag with wheels, filled with her computer, papers, books. In a few minutes all is ready for a trip half way around the world. She nods to me, the signal that it is time to call the taxi--the moment I dread, always sad at her going--as the Italians say, "Partire e morir" or each leaving is a small dying.

The taxi pulls up, I stand at the gate, Cello at my feet, his tail already hanging low, we hug, kiss good-bye--my head rests for a minute on her shoulder, her arms hold me, whispered "thank you for all you have given me," and so the hard week comes to an end with La Professoressa doing what she loves so dearly, doing what brought us together in the first place--flying off into the night, back to Europe, her head packed with ideas on women and human rights, her itinerary one of visits with old friends and classes to be taught, conferences to be attended, London, Paris her destinations, nothing annoys her now, not the long waits in Bahrain or Singapore, not the dash for connections, to buses, trains, from airport to hotel and back again--not the prospect of sleeping upright for hours after hours--her sore back longing for Richard's touch--once, ten years ago, this delight in leaving brought her to me in New York, with the sun of Cuba still fresh on her face, her arms.

Oh how we traveled together--to London, to Dorset and the English coast, to Athens and Mykkonos, Santorini and Crete, to Paris and Copenhagen, to Palestine/Israel. But now, Cello and I stand at our front gate and wave goodbye to the redhead as she pulls away from the house on Fitzgibbon Avenue, already speaking to the taxi driver from Lebanon--he too has left geographies behind--and then a final wave, as the taxi turns onto Dawson Street and she is gone. Cello looks up at me, his dark eyes even darker. Just you and me now, he looks into me. We make a promise to care for each other the best we can in the long days ahead until our exuberant traveller returns.