Dear Little Ones (who are probably not quite as little as I remember now),
I think about you everyday. I thought it would be easier by now. It’s been almost a year since I last saw you and still I wake up thinking about you and go to bed longing for you. It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost a year. It doesn’t feel that long ago that we were playing with puppets and plastic food and writing sentences in a language that was far different from your own. To all of you though it must feel like an eternity. You are so young, you have so few years to compare the passing of time to. As a child I would whine on Christmas morning as soon as we opened all the presents.
“It’s over,” I would cry in front of the torn wrapping paper and flung open boxes.
“Christmas will come again next year,” my mother would say to me.
“But that’s a whole year away,” I would whine. A year felt like a slowly passing train that would never end.
It doesn’t feel that way anymore though. The years now seem to chug along faster and faster, as if they are an accelerating train getting ready to derail.
I miss you so much it hurts. Some nights if I think about you too hard, I begin to cry. I whimper in my bed and think of each one of your faces. I try to remember all of your names, I try to prove to myself that I have not forgotten.
I don’t think I have ever missed anyone so much in my entire life. Sure I missed my family when I was with all of you. At times I missed them so much that it hurt too. But it was a different kind of hurt. It was a sharp pain that seemed to stab me in the gut for five minutes at a time and then would softly dissipate. I could call my family. I could even see them through the gracious acts of modern technology. I talked to them at least once a week and I knew that I would see them again soon. I knew that my separation from them was only temporary.
My separation from you though, is far from temporary. There are some of you, perhaps most of you, that I will never see or talk to again, although I like to think otherwise. I strategize about how I can make my way back to Nan before you leave the sixth grade. I dream of seeing you in the U.S. one day, all grown up, running into you on the street, somehow recognizing you despite the passage of time. I imagine crying and embracing you. I imagine that your English is almost perfect.
“Teacher Brenna,” you will say. And I will cry a little more because I miss being called that.
The pain I feel from missing you is a dull and constant ache. It is something that simmers beneath my skin, a constant vibration that many days I try to ignore, if only because it is easier to live in the present moment without thinking of all of you. Some days though, I cannot ignore it.
The other week I was at the grocery store with my mother when we ran into an old friend. She asked what I had been doing since college graduation. I told her I had taught English in Thailand for two years. I explained that originally I was only supposed to teach for a year but I decided to stay.
“Why?” she asked. She was inquisitive. Her eyes were soft and voice gentle.
I inhaled deeply. I opened my mouth, then paused. I could feel my face growing red.
“She loved her students,” my mother spoke for me.
I nodded. Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes. I thought it was becoming easier to be away from you. Just the day before I told myself that I was finally beginning to adjust to living back at home. But this friend, kindly asking me about all of you, made me realize otherwise — I still missed you all desperately.
“Why didn’t you stay?” my mother’s friend asked me now.
Why hadn’t I stayed? I was so happy with all of you. But it had never occurred to me that what we had could last forever. It had never occurred to me that I could stay forever.
Someone had asked me the same question when I came home during your summer from April to May. I was at my dentist and he asked if I would live in Thailand. I almost scoffed.
“No,” I said. “I’ll come home next year.”
You see, it was always temporary. It was this holding place in my life, this two year stint to fulfill a goal of traveling before I went to medical school. But sometimes I question why I ever left at all. I question if I will ever be as happy as I was with all of you in Nan. I question if I will ever have a job as fulfilling. I question whether I will experience another love that is anything similar to the love I shared with all of you.
If I had stayed in Nan, I would have a new set of students now whom I would form a similar bond with and whom at the end of the year it would be just as difficult to say good bye. But at least if I was in Nan I would still be able to see you. I would be able to see you grow up. The pain of losing you would dissipate, just as the pain of not seeing my family dissipated. Instead, I fear, that I will live with the pain of not seeing you forever. I will miss you each and everyday for the rest of my life. I will feel guilty as I forget your names over time and your faces will begin to blur in my memory (not that it will matter as your face will have certainly changed by then).
Never before have I formed such a deep relationship with a group of kids. The part that continues to amaze me is that we could never fully communicate. With our mixture of Thai and English we could only get across very basic phrases. And yet, I felt more connected to all of you than any child I have ever spoken to in English. Perhaps our language barrier made our bond stronger. Perhaps, just perhaps, if I had spoken fluent Thai or you all had spoken fluent English our bond would not have been the same. It was in the navigation of the space between our cultures and our languages that we began to love each other.
On days I especially crave that relationship I wear a bracelet that one of you gave me on a random Wednesday. You thrust the pastel colored beads into my palm as I entered the classroom. You smiled as I smiled. I wore that bracelet for months on end, without taking it off. Now I wear it on the days that feel unbearable to be apart from all of you.
At night, if I think about you too hard, I curl up to the teddy bear one of you gave me on the last day of school. It was one of only a few things that could fit into my suitcase. I hug that teddy bear tight and think of the other gifts you gave to tell me thank you, to tell me good bye. I think of the ceramic rooster and the green, silk tissue box cover that resembled a large couch. I think of the black purse with little Eiffel Towers stamped geometrically across its surface. I think of the rhinestone heart necklace that was too small to fit around my neck and the crocheted Hello Kitty with florescent whiskers. I think of the boxes of chocolate and the notes made with stray paper and dull pencils. I think of the red scarf and the large pink t-shirt with a whispering couple on the front. I think of the keychains and pens and the one purple brooch that I haven’t found a good enough occasion to wear to yet.
I think of the sparkly red hearts that came out around Valentine’s Day and which you all plastered to my shirt throughout the day so that I would go home with 20 stickers across my chest, glinting in the afternoon light. In September I found one of those stickers still hanging to the inside of the green jacket I brought to Nan. It was slightly curled, sitting right next to the opening of the right arm hole. I had been home for almost five months. I was amazed that it had hung on that long, through multiple packings and washings. Now every time I wore the jacket it was like a small part of all of you were with me. Every time I washed it I checked to see if the heart had fallen off. I smiled each time it hadn’t. It feels as if there is some meaning to that heart sticker, that it has stayed attached to that jacket for so long, against all odds, for a particular reason. I want to say it is because we are both thinking of each other, that it is because we both miss one another. But what does it mean then, when it falls off?
It did finally fall off, just the other day. I was out to dinner. I placed the jacket on the back of my chair. As we finished our meal and got up to leave I could see the sticker had moved 6 inches. The next time I put that jacket on, I thought, the sticker will fall off. I thought about taking the sticker then, placing it in my pocket, and keeping it there forever. Instead though, I pulled the jacket from the chair and put it on. I could still see the sticker, clinging by the dull adhesive, as I pulled it over each shoulder. When I got home and hung the jacket in the closet, the sticker was no longer there.
I don’t want to think too hard about the metaphorical meaning of that. Because the truth is, even without that sticker, I still think about you every day.
Happy Valentine’s Day, little ones. Go forth and put a million shiny, red heart stickers in people’s jackets. I wish I was there so you could put another one in mine.