The Last First

The wind whips my hair in front of my face, covering my eyes as I stare out from the back of the pickup. Sugar cane fields and bare tree branches pass by in a blur. I will only make this drive three more times. We pull in past the gates and climb down from the truck bed. I walk up the rest of the driveway and into the sala where capílla is already under way. I grab Cristal’s hand and squeeze. Will we sing this song again before Wednesday? After prayer we disperse for breakfast. I return to the comedor and stand by the window. Profe takes my plate. My last french toast.

Profe, superwoman, who has taught me more about patience and understanding than I ever knew I still needed to learn. She does it all. Every morning she dances her way between desks and backpacks, fans and dogs to make her way to the front of the room. She is constantly teaching seven classes at once. No one operates at quite the same pace. The outbursts and distractions she handles gracefully. She is stern with the students, never mean. She laughs with them often and it is clear she has so much love for each one. I do not know how I will return to three hundred person lecture halls after Escuelita, my little school.

After homework yesterday Profe stopped me to let me know she would not be here in the morning. Could I teach gym and English while she was gone? This is not the first time I have been the substitute, but it will be the last. I asked if she will be here Tuesday, if she will stay late for my despedida. Of course, she tells me. But I wish you wouldn’t leave.

In my last full week I have been consumed by the reality that my time on the mountain as an LTV is coming to an end. My suitcase sits where it has all year against the wall in my room, but now it looks less deflated as my closet is half empty and my bookshelves sparse. My phone calls home end with see you soon, not talk soon. I am counting down the number of cold showers I have left. More and more people are learning of my early departure. This position is typically held for a year at minimum. Only four months? Why so little? They are surprised and confused by mention of my despedida, my farewell dinner, next week.

I often head down to the house before dinner. It is my time to decompress, read my books, or work in silence. Wanting to spend more time with the kids before I go, on Wednesday I decided to stay and eat dinner with them. I watched the truck rumble down at four from the table out front where I was sitting with Tía Yessica and Zoe. The Tíos change shifts every four days, and I wondered if she would be here on Tuesday. No, she told me. She only covers shifts, so even with the upcoming switches she would not be here when I left. This would be the last time we saw each other.

We talked for a few minutes more and then it was time to eat. I have been around long enough to have favorite meals, but this was a name I did not recognize, a food I had not tried. I watched excitedly as Paola took three small parcels from the pot, unwrapped them and put them on my plate. My first tamalitos.

My last week here is full of just that: lasts. It is also serving as a reminder that I have many firsts ahead of me. My first solo international flight next Wednesday. My first full time job this summer. My first day of college classes in August. Life is full of both firsts and lasts, beginnings and endings. We may never see either of them coming. Being able to see the end coming does not make it any easier. All week I have teared up every time Gabriel runs up and hugs my legs not knowing how I will look a three year old in the eye and say goodbye.

I am not anticipating any of my goodbyes will be forever, rather, see you laters. I knew my time here at Montaña would be over in the blink of an eye and simultaneously feel like a lifetime. I feel blessed to have been here for every minute of it. For every day of class, for every serving of rice, for every scorpion in the sink. I will carry the last four months with me always, a piece of the Mountain of Light.