Page 16 of Wayfarers

down her cheeks like raindrops on a windshield.

I don’t think of you as a man now. I still think of you as my little boy.

That doesn’t change who I am, I said.

It’s so sudden, she said.

Sometimes you have to leave that way. You taught me that.

I had prepared that line. I could see her fighting

within herself to try somehow to make me stay,

but such compulsion violated our family’s most basic ethos.

But why?

I just need to, I said.

My mother hugged me, redolent of essential oils

of Haitian vetiver, Indonesian patchouli, rosemary, and the Atlas cedar and clove she wore to ward off biting insects. We hugged until a voice

from outside called, Rollin’ out! and the school bus roared to life.

My mom grabbed a tent and a sleeping bag

from a plywood compartment and shoved them in my hands.

On top of them, she wedged a wad of rolled-up bills, her earnings

from her oil blends.

I love you, Mom, I said through my tightening throat,

my voice a hoarse rasp. Check your email more often now.

She put her hand to my cheek. You’ll find your way to joy, baby. You’re resourceful

and brave and you have a gentle heart. She hugged me one more time, tight

like she willed her body to absorb me and carry me inside her again.

Then she boarded the bus. I waved to the quizzical faces

pressed to the windows as they slowly departed, so they would know

I was staying behind by choice. They’d known people to linger

for a season and then go their own way,

but usually not after eleven years.

Then they were gone.

I once read about a man marooned

at sea. He spoke of the emptiness and solitude