Personal Narrative #2: The Loonie

"We leave tomorrow," I say. "I'm going to miss you guys so much." The end of the statement is meant only for him.
"Let's not talk about it, or you'll drown us all with your waterworks," he replies. I nod, trying to shake off the feeling of impeding sadness. Droplets of sorrow teeter on my eyelids, despite my best efforts to keep them at bay. We enter the cafeteria and sit down, surrounded by our fellow goodbye-ers. What was an aura of joviality and sweet summer afternoons has descended into a heavy oppression of murmured memories and tearful partings. Sitting there on the hard cafeteria bench, my mind slips back in time...
Upon my arrival at the first of many Group Workcamp experiences, I was quiet, shy and unsure of the other 400 people in the camp. Who is going to be in my work crew? Are they going to like me? Am I going to like them? Will we finish our jobs? What will our resident, or residents, be like? Am I going to make any friends here? Should I just hide in the van for the week? It didn't take very long for me to cast aside those initial fears. Everyone was nice: Luka from Virginia, who never had his video camera turned off; Jared "Canadia" Tyler, who taught me the proper way to say "socks" and how to use the ever-popular "eh"; Hannah, whose swing-dancing skills I would never forget...this camp truly was the experience of a lifetime. I give myself a mental shake, and settle back into the not-so-cheery present.
"Hey, I've got that dollar bill for you." I hand the paper bill to him, and George Washington winks his farewell as the thin green material creases in his grip. I can't help myself, the tears well up again, and as they tumble down my face, words fall out of my mouth in a heart-felt rush.
"Why do you have to live so far away? Nine hours...I'll never see you again after tomorrow." The prospect of goodbye seems a cruel punishment for spending a week helping others.
"Hey, we'll keep in touch, eh?" I promise you I'll write. And there's always the phone. Come on, don't cry." He reaches out to me, and puts his hands on my shoulders, bending to peer into my tear-streaked facade. I can see the reflections of my emotions in his eyes, and I know his sentiments are the same. He sigh and pulls me into a long bear hug and the intercom clicks on. A cheery, "Alright Workcampers! It's 11:50! 10 minutes 'till lights out - your leaders have a lot of driving to do in the morning!" brings the embrace to an awkward end. We step apart, and begin to walk to the cafeteria's entrance.
"Don't leave until I see you in the morning," I say, knowing it's not really up to him.
"I won't," he responds, knowing, too, that the choice is not his to make.
I turn to leave, but a hand on my arms stops me and turns me back to face him. I look into his eyes, confused. Isn't this hard enough? Why is he prolonging this? He takes my hand in his, opens it and places a coin inside my palm. He presses my small fingers over the precious trinket and holds my fist for a brief moment before uttering a soft goodnight and disappearing around the corner. I begin to make my way back to my room without opening my hand, almost afraid that if I do, I will lose this treasure and with it will go the incredible memories of the past week. As I drag my feet along the corridor, my footsteps echo with the recollections of the previous six days.
Prayer.
Friendships.
Jokes.
Hard work.
Games.
Hugs.
Laughter...
When at last I reach my room, weak from the strenuous battle against my tears, I pick my way to my bed through the baggage, clothes, and air mattresses of other girls that are strewn across the room. After I lower myself to the nearly-flat air mattress, I open my hand. The coin is a soft and faded golden hue, its eleven sides reflecting the flourescent lighting of the classroom. Embossed on the front is the image of Elizabeth II, her head adorned with a lustrous and bejeweled crown. How many friends did you make and never see agian, I wonder? With a gentle flick from my thumb the coin is overturned in my hand. There, on the back, is another image. Between the words "Canada" and "Dollar" there is a small loon embellishing the monetary piece. The infamous "Loonie". His dollar.
The next morning, after more sad partings, I lay in the van with silent tears trailblazing their way down my face. I had already read through the notes everyone had written me twice; he had sent me two. For the rest of the ride home, I stayed where I was. Curled up, arms bent in towards my body, and knees brought up towards my chest so that I was nearly in the fetal position. One hand lay right next to my heart. That hand, which had remained closed in a fist throughout the morning, despite the hugs and the waving, still grasped the special treasure. It would stay in my hand until I got home, late that night. when it would be transferred to a small box with a decorated leather cover. It would remain in the box with other small trinkets until someday I blew the dust off of it and opened it to recount the tales from summers and friendships past. Yes, it would remain in the box physically, but I would always carry it near inside.