Partir, c'est mourir un peu

Partir, c'est mourir un peu,

C'est mourir à ce qu'on aime :

On laisse un peu de soi-même

En toute heure et dans tout lieu.

C'est toujours le deuil d'un vœu,

Le dernier vers d'un poème ;

Partir, c'est mourir un peu.

Et l'on part, et c'est un jeu,

Et jusqu'à l'adieu suprême

C'est son âme que l'on sème,

Que l'on sème à chaque adieu...

Partir, c'est mourir un peu

Edmond Haraucourt, 1890

As I prepare for my annual pilgrimage to the US, these words of the great French poet, Haraucourt, from the nineteenth century come to mind. Leaving, is somewhat like dying. The telephone which remained silent for weeks starts to ring. Every friend and acquaintance absolutely needs to see me, have a drink with me, talk to me, have lunch or dinner. Frenchmen consider departures even for as little as a few weeks as a loss. As the poet states, it's a mourning for what could have been and never will be. The scent of the person lingers in the air long after he has left. For France and me our summer 2012 has come to an end. Good-byes are excruciating for the French. The moment when people part lasts forever as people take your hand, look in your eyes and profess their regrets for the hours you will not spend together. They wish you all the best for the journey and your life. Breaking away is hard. They kiss you over and over. You continue to wave until someone has turned the corner. And that is the supposed moment of death.

Americans don't generally get this lump in their throats when someone goes away. It seems so normal to leave unless you are hopelessly in love and won't see your lover anymore. Welcoming someone home however is more emotional in the States. Strangely enough, that is lacking in France. When I return no one will be there to greet me and life will resume quickly as if I had never left. "Et ben. Te voilà". There you are again

The morose atmosphere always ends up getting to me. Knowing the French I try to hide my day of departure but they always sense it. Buying a baguette, cheese and some Marseilles lavender soap my favorite grocer let out a "Awwww. It's tomorrow, isn't it? Oh what a pity!" Walking through the square I looked up at the Gothic cathedral. The clock chimed two o'clock. The sun came out for once. A group of passer-bys chanted "j'aurais voulu" (I would have wanted). The word tomorrow resonated in my brain over and over. There are always so many things to do before I leave it's overwhelming. It never gets easier. No matter how much I try, I leave in the middle of something. There is too much to do. Doing my laundry, packing the suitcase and sorting through my mail is tedious work. What have I forgotten? I planned three days to do it. Not! I stop at a sidewalk café for a Monaco (beer, lemon and grenadine cocktail), sat down to make my list and feel the sun on my face. The waiter informs me tomorrow will be a beautiful day. My cell rings. It's friends calling to say bye! yet again. I sigh.

Now I'm writing this post to capture the day-before-tomorrow spirit. Oh, forget the damn suitcase. Leaving is a little bit like dying. As Monsieur Haraucourt puts it so romantically, our soul is lost and spread far and wide with each adieu. Today is the last line of a poem. Phew!

Copyright 2012 Merquiades