Today I said goodbye to a piece of myself—Savoeun—along with all of the other wonderful children I met at the orphanage. I am a strong believer in the ability for weather to foresee what is to come; today the weather told the story. We took a tuktuk (a cart attached to a motorcycle) down the rocky path to the orphanage for the last time. It was dark, yet had a luring appeal; the trip was the same as the others we had taken this week but it felt different for we all knew what was to come.
As our driver pulled in threw the gates, I heard his scream of joy. He couldn't have been happier, nor could I. Feeling nothing but the love in his eyes, I jumped out and felt the embrace from his lean and comforting arms. I held him close, he said my name, and I starred at him, for I was unable to cope with the cold truth that we would be apart for a whole year. Unsure of each other's safety, missing milestones, and clinging to the past.
The hardest part of loving Savoeun is my inability to know him. He is a mystery that I find clues to but never the answers. He is the green light at the end of the dock that I'm reaching for but can never grasp. I love that little boy with all of my being, and I don't even know his last name, his favorite food, or if he understands how I feel about it. I see my brothers and my sisters in him and can only hope that he sees a similar love in me. He wrote me notes saying he loves me and that is all I will ever need. He loves with his eyes: they become thin at the edges forming almonds when he is happy, and stay circular when he is disengaged or unsure. He speaks to me with his smile: always reassuring me with it when he is at peace or showing that he understands. Even when he is mute, he speaks a thousand words. His silence is loud as his love is deep. I know I have a place in his heart, and he knows he has taken a piece of mine. I boarded the airplane knowing that I was on borrowed time but couldn't prepare myself for how fast it'd pass.
