Goodbye Songs

At 11 am this morning it was exactly a week since I had last cried, and I was getting anxious; I thought that perhaps my tear ducts had sealed shut, or some kind of emotional door inside me had slammed, or perhaps I just wasn't drinking enough water or eating enough salt to manufacture the necessary fluids. A week of goodbyes to friends I may never see again, and assistants and children I will definitely never see again, and places I will never eat in again, and an ex-boyfriend I may or may not ever see again, and nothing: not one tear, not one dry sob, not one lip wobble. Which was a little weird for a couple of days, and then discomforting, and then downright worrying: for a girl who once sobbed for fifteen minutes during Kung Fu Panda, the last ten days should have completely dehydrated me. But there was nothing. Not a trickle.

At 11.03 am this morning, the dam finally burst: exactly two thirds of the way through The Goodbye Song I am forced to sing at the end of every pre-school lesson. I managed the first 'Goodbye Goodbye Everybody' chirpily enough, the second was a little strained, the third was choked, and on the fourth I gave up completely, abruptly stopped singing and stood in front of six tiny children and ten adults and loudly bawled my eyes out. It wasn't just that I was saying goodbye to Kou - the child I adore more than any other in the world - but that I was saying goodbye to all of it; to all of the children I have met, and all of the friends I have made, since I got here.

The children barely noticed, of course. For 2 and 3 year olds, crying is as much a part of a normal day as eating and drinking and showing strangers your new car-shaped keyring, so they all just assumed I was hungry or sleepy and carried on with the chorus. The mums, however, stopped singing, stared at me in shocked silence for a couple of seconds - public sobbing is very, very unJapanese and usually ignored as much as possible - and then rushed towards me with their arms out: at least two of them crying as well. Many emotional things were said - 95% of which were not understood by either parties - and then I knelt down on the floor and had six tiny, adorable children throw themselves bodily at me and hang on my neck in the world's smallest rugby scrum, before telling me they loved me - for the first time - utterly unprompted. And then Kou unwrapped himself, handed me a card he had made for me, said - solemnly, and in Japanese - "thankyou for everything you have ever done for me", and left. And I will never see him or any of the others again.

Since I arrived in Japan, I have often been lonely, I have often been unhappy, and I have very, very often been heartbroken, but I would not take back a single moment of any of that if it meant losing this morning as well. As much as it hurts me - knowing that it was my last Goodbye Song and my last cuddle with all of them - this morning was one I will carry with me when I leave: one that no heartbreak, and no loneliness, and no unhappiness, will ever get rid of. And while I will always miss them, they have also changed me: they have made me better, and stronger, and happier, and they have made my time here worth it.

Tears are what you make of them, and my sobbing this morning was one of pain, yes, but it was also one of happiness, and gratitude. I am so lucky to have met children I can love like that, and who love me back; so lucky to have had such an intimate experience with another culture, and another age group, and another language. For me, Kou and the gang will always be three and two years old: will always be driving their little cars, will always be hanging onto my neck or pretending to be tigers. And I will always love them.

And that, I think, is the kind of goodbye worth singing about.