THE MEET UP

GOODBYE

Entebbe Airport at dawn is full of endings.

I see them everywhere. Families saying goodbye. Couples adhering to each other. Children cry crying. Everyone pretending they’re okay when they’re not.

We’re not okay either.

Amon holds my hand so tight it hurts. I didn't tell him to stop. The pain helps. Keeps me grounded. Keeps me from fully falling apart.

Miriam is here. Mama Grace. Jjajja Florence. Even Mama, who drove from Mbarara at 4 AM to see me off.

Too many witnesses to my breaking.

“ You better video call me as soon as you land,” Miriam says. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying in the bathroom. Thinks I do n’t know. “ I don't watch about time zones. ”

“ I promise. ”

Mama Grace hugs me. Tight and maternal. “ You take care of yourself, child. Eat properly. And call my son regularly. He’s going to be unendurable while you’re gone. ”

“ Mama, I’m standing right then,” Amon mutters.

She ignores him. Touches my face. “ Your family now. That doesn't change because of distance ”

The words break something in me. I hug her back. Hard.

Mama pulls me away. Whispers in my ear. “ I’m proud of you. So proud. Indeed, if I don't always show it well. ”

“ I know, Mama. I love you. ”

“ Come home safe. Come home to us. ”

The boarding announcement comes. Kenya Airways flight to Kigali via Nairobi.

This is it.

Everyone way back. Giving me and Amon space. These last minutes belong to us.

We face each other. Neither knew how to start this insolvable farewell.

“ So. This is it,” he says.

“ This is it. ”

Silence. A thousand effects to say. No words acceptable.

He pulls out a small wrapped package. “ Don't open it until you’re on the airplane. Promise me. ”

“ I promise. ” My hands shake taking it.

I gave him an envelope. “ Same rules. Don't open until I’m gone. ”

We stand there. Airport chaos around us. Our small bubble of grief.

“ I love you,” he says. Voice rough with emotion. “ So much. That doesn't change because you’re getting an an airplane ”

“ I love you too. ” I’m crying now. Ca n’t stop. “ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m leaving. ”

“ Don't apologize. You’re doing exactly what you should be doing. ”

He pulls me close. Holds me so tight I can barely breathe. I do n’t care. I press my face into his chest. Try to study his smell. His warmth. The steady beat of his heart.

“ Eighteen months,” he says into my hair. “ We can do eighteen months. ”

“ Can we? ”

“ We've to. Because the alternative is losing you. And that’s not an option. ”

The final boarding call comes. Loud. pertinacious. Reality crashing in.

We kiss. Hopeless. Adhering. Trying to memorize each other through touch.

When we pull apart, we’re both crying openly. Not minding who sees.

“ Eighteen months,” I repeat. Making it real. “ June 28th. I’ll be home. ”

“ I’ll be then. Right then. Stay. ”

I got back toward security. Ca n’t turn down from him. Ca n’t break this connection until I've to.

“ Amon? ”

“ Yeah? ”

“ Don't forget me. Don't forget us ”

His voice breaks. “ Insolvable. You’re etched into my soul, Sarah Nakitende. ”

I turn. Walk toward security. Every step feels wrong. Like moving through water. Through grief. Through the end of something.

At the checkpoint, I look back one last time.

He’s still standing there. Hand raised. Partial surge, half benediction.

I image the gesture.

Also, I walked through, Fading from his view. Feeling such like half of me just got ripped down.

On the airplane, I eventually opened his package. A small rustic box. Inside a USB drive, tiny paintings, pressed flowers from Lake Victoria, and a letter.

My hands shake when reading it.

My dearest Sarah,

By the time you read this, you’ll be flying toward your future. I want you to know I’m so proud of you I could burst.

The USB has a playlist. Songs for when you’re missing home. Hear to track 7 when you’re having a really hard day.

The paintings are small enough for your luggage. Put them wherever you’re staying. Let them remind you that home isn't just a, place it’s a feeling you carry.

I know this year will be hard. There will be days you misdoubt us. On those days, flash back You're worth crossing the oceans for. You're worth staying for. You're worth every second of missing you.

Make your houses, Sarah. Help your communities. Be the brilliant, world-changing woman I fell in love with. And when you’re done, come home.

I’ll be here. Painting you in all your forms. Counting days until I can hold you again.

All my love, across distance and time, Amon

P.S. Track 7 is our song now. The one playing the first night we made love.

I hold the letter to my chest. Crying again. Ca n’t stop.

The woman beside me touches my arm. “ You okay, dear? ”

“ No. Yes. I do n’t know. ” I wipe my eyes. “ I just left the love of my life for eighteen months. ”

“ He’ll stay? ”

“ He says he will. ”

She smiles. Sad and knowing. “ also believe him. My hubby and I did two years apart. Military deployment. Hardest time of our lives. But we made it. Thirty years married now. ”

“ Two years? How did you survive ”

“ One day at a time. One phone call at a time. One letter at a time. ” She pats my hand. “ You’ll make it. Love that’s real does n’t dematerialize with distance. ”

I want to believe her.

I pull out my phone. Type a text that will shoot when we land.

Read your letter. Crying again. I love you. Miss you already. Eighteen months. We can do this. Thank you for letting me fly. - S

I look out the window. shadows and sky. Africa spreading below. Kampala fading behind me.

nearly down there, Amon is probably opening my letter. Reading words I poured out at 3 AM. Promises and love and faith.

The aeroplane carries me toward Kigali. Toward my work. Toward the person I’m getting.

Behind me Kampala. Amon. Home.

Ahead Everything additional.

Between us Five hundred and forty- seven days of staying, growing, proving that love does n’t need proximity.

Just commitment.

I close my eyes. Clutch his letter. Try to breathe through the grief.

Eighteen months.

We can do this.

We've to.