every time we say goodbye

Mexico is my home.

That truth becomes clear whenever I travel away from the patch of land in Barra de Navidad that hubris deludes me into believing I own.

When I lived in Oregon, I would feel a soupçon of what passes for emotion with me when I would fly over Portland. “I’m home.”

No more. I flew from Redmond to Portland in the wee hours this morning. On our approach to PDX, I felt nothing -- other than the need to rush to catch a connecting flight and be out of Portland as quickly as I could.

Sure, I have friends in the area. Some of my most long-standing friendships from grade school. And my nephew and his family live there. But, to me, the city may as well be the setting for a political dystopia. (Of course, that is nothing more than a Twainian redundancy.)

Mexico may be home, but I still enjoy visiting family. I knew this was going to be an odd Thanksgiving when I tacked it on as an extra leg between Mexico and Fort Lauderdale.

My initial plan was to fly to the Reno house and vote in early November. My DHL ballot box ploy obviated that stop (voting late, but often). Instead, I decided to make the trip to Bend to spend Thanksgiving with my family.

My prediction that it would be an odd Thanksgiving proved to be accurate. Foods better known in Britain, Mexico, somewhere in an imaginary section of China where food is drenched in sugar, and Thailand were hardly traditional fare. But I was not in Bend for the food. I was there to see my family.

Because my brother and his wife are in the process of building a house in Prineville, I could not stay with them, as I usually do. Instead, I stayed the week with my Mom in a house that is twice-removed from the house where I grew up.

It was a pleasant time. I cannot remember when Mom and I spent that much time together -- with just the two of us. Maybe never.

She is at that stage of life where conversations on any topic eventually turn into a recounting of tales from her youth in Powers. But that is fine. I have heard most of the stories before. Somehow, their retelling is burnished with a new patina.

When I am not quoting Stephen Sondheim lyrics, I often fall back on something by Cole Porter. (Not surprisingly, Porter is one of Sondheim’s song-writing models.)

While walking around Mom’s neighborhood yesterday afternoon, segments of a song kept running through my memory bank. Just segments. If I had been a contestant on Name That Tune, I would have been standing with my hand over the buzzer like a dementia patient.

And then I made the connection. Porter’s “Every Time We Say Goodbye.”

The reason that particular song was banging around in my head was obvious. I was about to do just that.

It was an appropriate soundtrack. Setting aside Porter’s dodgy theology, the song is memorable because of its musical simplicity and restrained pathos. “Every time we say goodbye/ I die a little.”

And, Mom, Darrel, and Christy, that is true. We can only honestly claim that we “die a little” if we have lost a portion of what we adore. I will miss sharing time with all of you-- even when three of our four restaurant outings for Thanksgiving will get dumped in the “never again” basket.

In consolation, I offer the gift of a tune that cannot be valued. Ella Fitzgerald’s rendition of what was running through my head.

Enjoy.