The Last Time
Well. I've arrived.
And I don't think it's really hit me that I've moved abroad. That I've become one of those people whose stories I devoured back in 2023, or even earlier during the pandemic, desperate for a glimpse of a life that intrigued me while growing increasingly bored with my own. Back then, I wondered whether I could ever be one of them. Someone with the courage to give up so much and follow her heart wherever it led.
Perhaps it's because I already have a routine. It's odd to think that I've barely been here a week, and I'm already caught up in the hustle and bustle of Madrid life. One foot in, anyway. There are still plenty of things to sort out before I can really settle in. But strangely, it all feels rather normal.
My arrival had that same odd anticlimactic feeling to it—the one I felt when I left my San Francisco apartment for the last time. And again when I hurriedly hugged my parents and waved goodbye from the window of my Uber to SFO in the darkness of early morning.
And now here I am, sitting in my temporary home, Milo giving himself a bath next to me on the bed. The day outside is gray and drizzly. It's Sunday. All those things had the same build-up, and then, ohmygod, suddenly they were happening.
Gotta go.
Maybe it's because all of these things are moments in time. And when you're preparing for a future so completely unlike anything you've ever experienced—full of unknowns, with people and familiar things left behind—it's easy to forget about the moment you're actually in. Not knowing that you might be living it for the last time. These moments come and go so quickly. Parents watching their children as infants one moment and high school graduates the next. A familiar neighborhood changing almost beyond recognition. Two people saying farewell, one returning home only to realize they'd fallen for the other.
When do these changes happen, and why don't we notice? Why can't we remember to savor what's right in front of us before it's gone? All the words left unsaid. The things we wish we'd done differently. The courage we wish we'd had. How do you say you're sorry for not being the person you wanted to be in the moment? That last time?
So many questions. So few answers.
And once again, my thoughts wander back to Japan. This time, to Hiroshima and Miyajima.
Hiroshima's Peace Memorial Museum and Peace Memorial Park moved me more than I expected. The monuments, the horror, the lasting effects. But most of all, the human stories. The museum was crowded, but everyone—and I mean everyone—moved through it quietly, reading the exhibits. There was no laughter, no idle chatter. It was as though the museum had our undivided attention. You could feel the weight of what we were witnessing. What stays with me even now is the thought that none of those people knew it would be the last time they saw their loved ones. Children leaving for school that morning in their uniforms, carrying their lunch boxes. Families who would later search for what remained of them.
Three days before I left for Madrid, my parents and I traveled to Santa Rosa, where we laid a gentle, calm man to rest. He was married to my godmother, who had encouraged us to connect on Facebook after seeing me rekindle my passion for photography. We hadn't always been connected there, but once we were, he began admiring and commenting on my photographs. His last comment was on my Bay to Breakers photo post in July. I had no idea it would be the last one I'd receive from him. Frankly, I wish I'd posted sooner and more often. Perhaps we could have gotten a little more joy from one another.
Now there are no more posts. I look at his Facebook page, and it feels still and incomplete. He will post again, one would think. But no.
What lingers, of course, are the wonderful memories of his warmth, sweet gentleness, and humor. And his quiet encouragement. But the service revealed something I hadn't known about him. The man could draw. Amazingly. What a gift to discover this side of him, even though I'll never have the chance to tell him how talented I thought he was, or how his drawings made me feel. They were beautiful and silly and larger than life.
The man could draw.
After Hiroshima, I took a ferry to Miyajima, known for its giant red floating torii gate and the UNESCO World Heritage Site, Itsukushima Shrine. It was appropriately rainy and stormy to match my feelings after spending time in Hiroshima. I felt so cold and gray after that. And Miyajima, even in the gray, presented an odd sort of challenge. Cameras and rain don't really mix well. Neither do cameras, rain, wind, and an umbrella that requires a third hand. Add thunder and lightning, and things get a little more complicated. It was enough to make me want to fold myself up under my hotel's down comforter and take a nap.
But I thought, I'm only here once. I could return someday, sure. But what if I don't? So I went out and braved the rain. I wasn't the only one! And because the tide was out, I could walk toward the gate. And then it thundered. A deafening crack echoed across the forested hillsides. Lightning followed moments later. Standing on the beach with the giant gate before me, I thought, Hmm, perhaps this isn't all that safe. Out in the open like this.
Still, I lingered for a few moments, watching the angry skies and thinking, oddly, that perhaps these were the ghosts of Hiroshima warning me to take cover. Go back. Other tourists were already fleeing toward the tree-lined pathway to the shrine. And so I did. Making my way back, thinking perhaps tomorrow would bring better weather. Only to awaken to more rain. But I went out anyway. Reminding myself that I might never be here again. And besides, the tide would be in. And it was. There stood the floating torii gate, surrounded by silvery, gently rippling water, the moody gray sky above. Serene. Beautiful. Entirely different from the day before.
I'm glad I followed my heart that morning. I knew the tide would be in, and I wanted to see the gate floating on the water. To photograph it. To experience it for myself. I've learned to trust where my heart leads me, even when I don't know what I'll find when I get there.
And now, here I am. In Madrid. Learning Spanish in the mornings, advanced TEFL in the afternoons, and hopefully squeezing in my padrón and TIE appointments somewhere along the way, if I'm lucky. Making friends. Invited into my first WhatsApp community. My apartment lease in its final stages, with a November 1 move-in date. And Milo snoozing beside me, concerned only with his next meal and snuggles.
I think back now to the funeral, three days before I left for Madrid. It was hot outside, the sun bearing down on us all in our black. In the distance, crows flew above the graves. And all the other moments from that day. The bittersweet reunion of close friends and family who hadn't seen one another in years. My godmother retelling the story of how she and her husband met, and how she knew he was the one. I sobbed. Roses dropped on his casket like kisses. Earth falling through children's fingers as it was lowered.
The finality. The last time.
But what stays with me, too, are his drawings. The hobby he found his way back to later in life. Like me and my photography. I like to think we'll always have that in common. And that, no matter how alone I might feel, he's here with me in Madrid, too.