How Do I Say Goodbye? by NT Franklin

We met the first day second grade. You were new to town; my people had been here forever, living on the poor side of the tracks. You had pink ribbons and plastic barrettes in your long blond hair. I close my eyes to say goodbye, and I see your pink dress, white socks, and shiny black shoes.

My lucky stars put you in the seat in front of me. I put on my best smile and stuck out my hand, Roger L. McConnel here; I’d like to be friends. I’m Tammy. I’d like to be friends, too. How do I say goodbye to that memory?

You stayed in town through high school because your dad ran the factory where my dad worked. I stayed in high school because you were there. I don’t remember a single day that doesn’t include you. How can I say goodbye to that?

I went to work at the service station, you went into the factory office. Two years I worked to be able to buy the station. Then I asked for your hand. Fifty years, three daughters, and five granddaughters later I have to say goodbye. Every day I was with you. How can I say goodbye to a lifetime?

I left the room so they could close the casket. How do I say goodbye to part of me? All of me? Outside, eight blond girls surrounded and hugged me. I looked into their faces. Each one looked like you. I realized I didn’t have to say goodbye to you.