These last few years, at the end of the gathering, she has taken a moment to hold my shoulders and look me in the eye. She holds my gaze and tries to say everything through them that can't pass her lips. And I nod to her, keeping my face steady, even though I want to brush her off.
That discomfort is a place of resistance and magic lives on the other side of it. So I push through it.
"In case I don't see you in the morning, I guess I'd better say goodbye. Bye," she says.
There is more unspoken in her words and I hope I understand them right. She's older, about an age where it's possible she won't return. I want to brush her off. Of course she'll be back. We all live forever, don't we? But I know we don't. So I nod and hold the sacred exchange.
The moment is not about me. I can deal with my emotions around it later. The moment is about how she feels about me, about us. So I smile soberly, still staring with her into that space where our lives intersect.
"I love you," I added this year, my own mortality ringing in my ears. I didn't have the courage to say it last time, but I didn't want to let the moment pass. We held that space and she nodded before walking away, disappearing into a celebratory crowd.
This year we had a second exchange in the morning as everyone dispersed. She came right for me and hugged me, reminding me again how grateful she was I survived the fire to return this year, and telling me she wished nothing but the best for my life and my future, weighting every word with a lifetime of thoughtfulness, just in case...
As a teacher myself now, I knew the best thing I could do was give her that last moment, in case it was. The least I could do for her was let her play out the ritual.
"I love you," I said again. She held my gaze, her hands on my shoulders, connecting us. And she took a deep breath.
"I love you, too," she answered, before walking away.
Just <3
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