Where the World Began

I never knew the concept of good-bye until then.

Not until I saw him pull away and leave me in my puffy coat and red cheeks on the shore of the stagnant harbour did I finally understand. It was then, not when Starfish the gold fish jumped out of her bowl and I had to say goodbye as the water took her away. It wasn’t a real good-bye; she was just a fish.

But he’s not a fish. I didn’t flush him away.

Instead, he's a sailor. He was swept away, kit bag and all. Except his kit bag this time was larger and filled with things to remind him of me and the two others. “Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag” they used to sing. I was a trouble he had to pack away, temporarily at least.

This is when my world began. With the uttering of goodbye and the camera zoom on my tear stained cheeks. No, not the uttering of goodbye. To utter goodbye would not have been a proper farewell for an eight year old. I yelled at the ship as it pulled away. So did many others.

My tiny bird voice was absorbed by the pounding of the receding waves, but I’m positive he heard.

That autumn, we didn’t go apple picking. Instead, mom sliced her finger bad on my pumpkin.

He wasn’t there to prevent it.

My uncle came to help her stop the gushing blood. I pranced soullessly around. It just wasn’t the same.

There was a call on occasion. You would know when it was coming. Mom got all tense and waited for it. I’m sure she thought he fell off the boat.

The phone would ring and I’d neglect all possible rules of bedtime. I knew. I just knew.

“Hi Daddy.”

“Hi Sweetie.”

“Mommy says don’t fall off the boat!”

“I won’t.”

Holding the phone tightly, I’d run around as if I was holding him from half a world away.

Kaela would cry some nights when there was no call. She was younger and didn’t fully understand like I did. My world had begun and I knew absence.

We made him packages of all the things he was missing. There were tapes of us reading (by this time, I was pretty darn good at chapter books while Kaela struggled through the simple stuff). Once, we even made seahorses out of beads. We kissed them before we put them in the box to make sure he didn’t miss out on too much. Pictures were put in at random like postcards of exotic places he could only dream about.

That Christmas we went to visit Grandma and Grandpa by train. My first train trip ever. Zipping past town after town, the Christmas lights blurred into each other, an endless stream of shooting stars for me to wish the same wish. That was at night. During the day, I was restless. Halifax to Ottawa is a hefty trek by train. I was insatiable. First

colouring, then a book, then food, then the observation deck. Five minutes later and I’m done with the observation deck: there’s no colouring there. And no shooting stars.

Christmas was odd without him. Grandpa tried his best by making more food than we could eat. Grandma let us decorate the tree, reminding us not to touch her Pointsettas. But we were only with Mom. He was further away from us now. We moved west while he’s still chugged steadily east. By Christmas, I already had a notion on how wide the world was: we charted his progress on our map, plotting each point ceremoniously, hunting him down to bring him home. This trip to Ottawa simply expanded my borders. Canada isn’t just Nova Scotia, the world isn’t merely a stage anymore. Grandma and Grandpa tried to keep us entertained, with the pool and the snow and the pictures, but the only thing I wanted I had wished for on the first star of every night.

I say my world began when he pulled out of port because that is when I knew that the world could take people away from me, that change was bound to happen. My mom was only a smile with her lips. The teeth were missing. She was missing a part of her. And I was missing more parts as everyday I become more accustomed to the lips-only smile.

We get pictures too. There he is with some camels, and there he is with the sea and the sky blending into each other to look like one big blue canvas behind him.

One day, we received stuffed animals. I have a bear, Essa, and Kael has a hippo, Happy. The bears were like the telegrams we’ve never gotten: DEAR GIRLS STOP I MISS YOU STOP ALL MY LOVE STOP DAD

Before we even know it, the countdown drops below 50. The thumbtacks on the map begin to falter in their course East. He’s coming home.

We make a huge banner with the other families who have gone through the separation. I smear my hand in red paint and carefully examine the banner. I need somewhere to put my mark that he will see from the ship with his sea eyes, accustomed to blue and bad. I select a location and Kaela’s blue print joins mine. Mom signs our names for us and we look at the banner covered with handprints of all sizes and colours that say just one thing: Welcome Home.

We sight the ship first because we aren’t at the dockyards. We’re waiting for him like we would if he was returning on a plane and we were waiting in viewing lounge. Here is better with the saline breeze and room to run and wave and race the boat back to port.

It’s hard to get back into the car when I see him. 

The ship pulls in on the exact opposite day as when it left. Instead of drizzle and cold it is warm and sunny. I’m wearing my reversible hat with the bubble printed side up. Kaela and I run about the banner. We beat the ship here.

And now I’m running back into his arms. I’ve returned to where my world began. To where I learned that the good bye happens but it’s not the end.

I drag him away from mom and show him my handprint.
“There,” I say, “There is my hand print. I made it for you.”