Arriving in Christchurch that evening, everything was hectic. Bags needed to be packed, we needed a place to stay and eat, and there seemed to be a million loose ends to tie up. It would be a lot to do anywhere, but in an earthquake ravaged town where stores were closed, entire blocks were cut off, and roads were 3rd world at best, everything was that much harder.
We went to sleep late that night, trying to make the most of the time we had left. Her flight was around 6:30 so we had to leave for the airport about 4 the next morning. Once we got there, I parked in order to help carry her bags and get checked in, and then we slowly walked to the beginning of the security line, dragging our steps and engaging in nervous chatter. Anything to fill the void I guess. This was the part of our trip where we were supposed to say goodbye.
It's an unbelievably hard thing to do; say goodbye. No matter what you tell yourself, or how you justify it, or what bittersweet expression or song you've heard offering perspective or silver linings or any of that bullshit, there's just no way around the reality. True goodbyes, from the temporary yet long, to the absolutely permanent, are heart-wrenching, raw, experiences. There's just nothing glamorous about it.
I got back to the room exhausted, and collapsed on the bed, but couldn't fall asleep. The bed wreaked of her. I felt it taunting me about things I know longer had. It suddenly dawned on me how long it had been since I had slept without her. I just laid there, carelessly drowning in loneliness.
The next few days I walked around like a zombie. I had just one thing to do in Christchurch; fix the van. At first I was happy to have a chore, to keep my mind moving, and out of dark places. But things have changed, and that silver lining wore off long ago. I am STILL stuck here. Still adrift in this forgotten city.
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