**The Grammar of Goodbye**
Barcelona, 09:03 AM
The olive tree is skeletal now—November has stripped it down to its verbs. Polilla spins a single thread between two branches, her silk trembling in the breeze. My suitcase yawns open by the door, half-packed. The Patagonia flight departs in nine hours.
Lina is already at her studio, though she left her favorite sweater draped over my chair—a silent concession, a take this piece of me with you. The old Sofia would’ve folded it neatly into the suitcase. The new Sofia presses it to her face and inhales the scent of turpentine and Lina’s sleep-warm skin, lets it sear into her memory like a tattoo.
Polilla lands on my open passport. “¿Lista?” Ready?
I trace the stamps—Iceland, Azores, Morocco—each a closed parenthesis. The old Sofia measured her life in departures. The new Sofia notices how the blank pages outnumber the filled ones, how the spaces between journeys are where the real stories ferment.
My camera sits on the kitchen counter, still holding yesterday’s shots: Lina’s hands shaping clay at 3 AM, the way her brow furrowed not in frustration but in devotion. The old Sofia would’ve packed three lenses, four memory cards, her entire identity condensed into gear. The new Sofia slips only the 35mm into her bag—the one that captures life at eye level, the one Lina bought her after the NatGeo rejection with a note: “Para ver el mundo como lo sientes, no como lo vendes.” To see the world as you feel it, not as you sell it.
Polilla tugs at my earlobe. “¿Extrañarás el árbol?” Will you miss the tree?
Outside, the castellers are dismantling their practice structures. The old Sofia would’ve photographed their final formations. The new Sofia watches the way they linger afterward, shoulders brushing as they pack up, how goodbye is just another kind of touch.
Lina’s voice message plays from my phone—recorded last night while I pretended to sleep: “No te pierdas en los glaciares, ¿vale? Recuerda que hasta el hielo más antiguo se derrite un poco cada verano.” Don’t get lost in the glaciers, okay? Remember even the oldest ice melts a little each summer.
Polilla crawls into the hollow of my throat. “¿Volverás más suave?” Will you come back softer?
I zip the suitcase shut. The old Sofia believed travel hardened you, made you impervious. The new Sofia knows now: the real journey isn’t about armoring yourself against the world—it’s about letting it leave its fingerprints on you, trusting they’ll guide you home.
Lina’s key turns in the lock. She’ll be holding two cafés con leche, her eyes daring me to comment on their shared silence. The old Sofia would’ve filled it with promises. The new Sofia will press her lips to Lina’s flour-dusted temple and whisper only this: “Guárdame un poco de barro.” Save me some clay.
Polilla weaves herself into my hair like a living hairpin. “¿Esto es crecer?” Is this growing up?
And perhaps it is—learning that love isn’t the opposite of freedom, but its dialect. That roots don’t tether you; they give you something to push against when you need to reach higher. That the most important grammar isn’t in the grand narratives, but in the quiet conjugations of go and stay, leave and return, remember and wait.
Lina’s sweater finds its way into my suitcase after all. Not because I need it, but because she needs me to take it. The old Sofia collected souvenirs. The new Sofia is learning to be one.
—Sofia