..."it is hard to ask it to leave."

"The American philosopher Ralph [Waldo] Emerson wrote that," Arturo said when he and Violeta came over to visit last night. We were having a spirited conversation about the troubles of colonialism and the possibility of independence in Puerto Rico, but I couldn't help but think about the literal meaning that phrase might have. It seems Comfort packed her bags and decided to leave last week, getting a head start on us as we were busy making preparations for our own departure from the island. There hasn't been too much comfort around for the past few days, and I felt a little embarrassed that I had to dig dining room chairs out of the "things for sale" pile so that the four of us could sit down and share one last bottle of Chilean wine together. The corkscrew had already been packed and so Francisco dug into the bottle with a knife, the kitchen items being the very last pieces to pack... Francisco trying, through food, to maintain a semblance of home until this very afternoon. At 2 pm, when he should have already been at the airport, we were eating our last meal in this home together at the table on our balcony, surrounded by the lush plants--the wandering Jew, the bougainvilla, la lengua de la suegra  (mother-in-laws tongues!), the spindly cacti, and others whose names I don't know--that he nurtured over the past few years.

We hurried to the airport in our friend's taxi, laughing about the adventures the three of us had enjoyed together here. Francisco once worked with the taxi driver, who owned a restaurant before he changed careers, and how many times had we gotten a good laugh out of something absurd that Freddy had done? Telling us he was going to go "take a nap" in the afternoon, code phrase for a quickie with the cook, just one of his many girlfriends; dying his hair in the kitchen sink; and scouting for barmaids by poaching them from other bars and restaurants (I went along for the hunt one night and the only reason I'm glad I did was because it gave me a good story to tell). Once I'd been called to fill in for one of the girls, as she'd decided to go shopping--in the middle of her shift-- for panties with an elder customer who liked to play the same song (doo-wop, doo-wop, doo-wop, doo-wop) on the jukebox every time he came by... which was every day. When she returned from her shopping spree, she laid the goods out on the bar, much to the titillation of all men present. Freddy had just laughed while I stewed in self-righteousness and wondered why I was pinch-hitting for a hussy when I should be home writing.

I saw Francisco and Penelope off and came home to an apartment that is devoid of all comfort. I can't find anything, so I'll live pared down to the essentials for the next few days. I'll avoid buying anything-- how can I finish a carton of milk on my own?--and eat leftovers. I'll be boxing up whatever little there is left to pack and leaving as soon as it's picked up by the movers and the person who has agreed to buy the rest. Tonight, I'll be moving our bed into my office, the only room where I still have a lamp. As Arturo and Violeta stood up to go last night, the bottle empty and conversation not exhausted but bodies, yes, I knew for sure that Comfort was gone.  It is hard to ask Comfort to leave. Leaving of any sort, even when you think you're ready, is hard.