Posted on Sunday, 27 February
Above the Gulf of Mexico, in a plane full of fishermen, college students, Ticos, and gringos, I sat overwhelmed with sadness. We had just taken off from Fort Lauderdale and I had a seat by the tiny window opening into endless blue and white clouds. With Joe to my right, we talked about how it was strange to be returning to Costa Rica after being in Puerto Rico—a place that felt to us so much like America.
A part of me felt like we should be flying from San Juan back to Texas. But we were instead flying to somewhere quite near home and then back down south for more than a thousand miles, to a land where we have a few things, a beloved dog, and a struggle characterized by a fluctuation from hate to an almost love. I tried to explain to Joe why I was so sad, but all I could say was, “I can’t explain it.” Then I cried. And then I searched and discovered that I was heavily dreading the months ahead, which would begin with the unpredictable bus ride back to Quepos, and would continue, I assumed, as week after week of overheating, watching every cent spent, and dreaming of home. And after that I fell asleep.
A few days later, I talked with my mom on a lazy Sunday afternoon. She said to me, after listening to my complaints, “Y’all are just tired.” And I said, “Yeah, yeah we are.” The heat and the walking and the multiple grocery stores and the crazy people were starting to wear on us. I told her that we were reaching a point where we were ready to come home. “I think we’ve gotten all we can get from this thing,” I said, surprising myself with this newly uncovered position and my assuredness in its accuracy. Still, when she offered to cancel their trip down to Costa Rica in May if we wanted to come home, I rejected the offer on the grounds that we might regret leaving too early.
A few hours later, after a couple of glasses of boxed white wine, I knew that there must be more in store. I didn’t know what the upcoming months held and I didn’t much want to find out. I had some hopes and some plans, but I knew that none might ever happen. I did know that when I returned to Texas, my sister would soon be leaving for New York, and my dad would be comforted only by my returning presence in the wake of her absence for a city he has never met but is sure he will never understand.
When she told me she was leaving Austin and moving North even if she wasn’t offered the fellowship for which she recently applied, she explained it by saying, “There’s just nothing for me here. It’s just time for me to go.” Despite my disappointment in a continued long-distance sisterhood, I understood. “Well, I had to leave a year ago,” I said, “so that was my time. And now it’s yours.”
I’m not entirely sure, especially considering that New York City offers so much, but I suspect she will be back. If not soon, then maybe when she becomes too tired to live separated from the only place that will ever feel like home.
