Dates of departure can provide us the illusion of closure. As if the moment we read the last page on a book, it is settled within us and the story ends (perhaps this is the case with bad books).
I am clutching a cup of coffee, its brown ceramic structure bends with curves like a woman and its liquid prepares me for that final boarding call. Its a strange cup and I sort of want to snatch it and take it with me so when I drink of it it a land so far from Guatemala I might remember this volcano encircled city. I wish English had two classificiations for the term "steal"-words which revealed intentions. There is of course, stealing to sell, in order to satisfy addictions and then there's steal to possess a object which reveals greater meaning.
I stole some clothes from my friends to take with me to Guatemala. I know this was selfish and rude but I longed to have a small token of memory, wrapped around my body to carry within them the sights and smells and touches of my travels. I thought upon returning the items, the clothes could tell the stories
to my friends which I either couldn't do or remember.
My favorite shirt was actually loaned to me (a rare luck). An old black T-Shirt advertising a Bose Stereo System. The back read, "Can't Live With Just One." I never thought much about it until I began wandering around the dusty roads of Santa Maria Tze'ja while my witty and ambitious english and art students, young high-school age kids of pure mayan descent living in the jungle of northern guatemala, would try and read the sentence. This almost always ended in laughter as the english disolved into some slightly similar sounding word in their K'iche indigenous language. Sometimes they asked what it meant and I wonder if they imagined white blondes in the united states, living in houses filled with radios.
K'iche is pretty damn cool language. It's the most widely spoken of the 23 Mayan languages which remain in Guatemala and in its structure there is no word for "Good Bye" or "Adios", simply, "Til we meet again"
(this is the point where i become painstakingly aware of the limitations of language, want to scream and yell and kick myself out of the cage it traps us in)
I feel sad leaving Guatemala, boarding a plane with my back to the friends I  have, with inconceivable luck, stumbled upon. I never would have expected nights fending off tarantulas with machetes, resting in hammocks, talking about religion and sharing a beer with people so different from me in such a far place, all in a second language, and feeling a sense of belonging.
I'm sure I learned other things in Guatemala, and if the opportunity struck, I could be very dramatic about the wretched poverty and the aftermath of the 36 year civil war (which, in many ways, continues today). I could mention the genocide victims, the former guirillas, and the agony of the marginalized with whom I've spoken.
But the truth, the honest truth as I prepare to return to the States and take with me this coffee cup and my memories, is that I will remember my friends more than anything. Their stories, like all the friends we ever meet, gently weave into the fabric of our own, elaborate tapestry.
Guatemala is famous for its brilliant colors and impossibly conceived weavings. Im glad to have a few strands, a few bright lines in my story. Maybe i'll add a few more when I see them again (because good-byes just don't exist).

quietly she attended to her tasks

raising and rearing and indeed revearing

the command which gave land and life

and for all that she knew

she gave thanks to

and then on the day whene He arrived in the bay

to demand of her hands and her lands she

resisted.

He persisted and invaded her tender skin and came.

He came and came and came.

The seed was spread while only a few were fed

starved of their desires with smothered fires of

resistence.

She bore the bastard children with dignity and open eyes

screaming not for the pain but for the lies of their

tragic lineage.

Denied the title "Daddy"

Demanded "Unlce Sam" instead and with a pistol aimed at mother,

took the children to his bed.

Now He visits most everyday to review and rehearse the rules of his foreplay

He says

"I know you look like mommy but if you do as I say

you could be like me someday.

Now children wont you make my bed and wash my sheets.

Clean that dish and please don't wish for

Too Much.

Work til you die and you might get by but first could you

plant that fruit and stitch this boot as well as these clothes.

That's just how it goes.

Now sport, I know this might sound a little crass.

But Uncle Sammy needs a permanent underclass."

The Children then mus turn away to do what must be done

to feed their own and lifting tired hands they pray

that these last might be first

someday