"Saying goodbye isn't the hard part, it's what we leave behind that's tough"

Day 10:

The best way to prevent yourself from crying before you even leave, is to distance your mind. Don’t focus on the fact that you know your heart will be broken in a few hours. Don’t look at your watch (you’ll realize how soon you’re leaving), don’t think about leaving, don’t think about how it’s your last day. You need to soak in every single last second, then pour your heart out in return. Any opportunity you see to do something, even the smallest thing, you take. Take every second and hold on to it for dear life, because before you know it it will be the next second, and the next, and the next, and the next… until suddenly you’re sitting in  your bed trying to put into words what just flew by at the speed of light, and all you want is to go back.

As I carried in huge boxes of dishes and spoons, a group of kids (including Kelvin) came out to help. We got all our supplies inside, then ran back out with soccer balls.

I was in a little dirt field surrounded by tall trees with Camryn, Kelvin, Yohana, and the five year old twins Meshak and Shedrak. For fifteen minutes straight, I played keep away with Kelvin and Yohana. We sprinted around the field, faking each other out, kicking up dirt, and screaming and laughing. The day hadn’t even started, and I was already out of breath. I didn’t mind though, because every moment was worth it. I was feeding off of the kids’ energy, and all I wanted was to stay in that moment.

                To switch it up, Jake and I switched stations, so I was now in gymnastics with Ansley and Makena.
We started off by stretching, but most groups ended up spending their hour doing handstands and playing games. It wasn’t until after lunch that Kelvin and his group came through our station. We lead everyone outside to a patchy little field.

Before starting any activity, we always say, “Make a circle!” and everyone holds hands and makes a circle. Today, whenever I asked to make a circle, two people would grab my hands. Then Kelvin and his best friend, Emmanuel (Emma for short [pronounced ‘Imma’] would yell at whoever was holding my hands in Swahili until they let go, then take their place. To be honest, I really didn’t mind it. Any opportunity I saw, I would grab their hands.

Their favorite game to play was called “groups”. To play the game, everyone runs around in random patterns, then the leader shouts out a number, and you have to make a group of that number. For example, if the number three was yelled, then I would grab two other people and cling to them. So as we played, Kelvin and Emma followed me closely (even though you’re supposed to spread out.) Then whenever Makena shouted a number, they would leap forward and grab me before anyone else could, wrapping their arms around my waist and holding my hands. My heart would race and my face would ache from smiling. I tried to hold onto them as long as possible until it was time for the next round. Another favorite was “What Time is it Mr. Fox”. Again, Emma and Kelvin would gang up on me and sandwich me from both sides.

Once the day had ended, it was time for our party. Rasta John came to be the DJ, and blasted a mix of incredibly loud Western and Tanzanian music. We danced, and danced, and danced. Grabbing hands, swinging kids, and singing along. It was a constant effort not to pass out from the immense heat, and to even hear each other after having our eardrums broken from the music. Benard, who had come for the last two days of camp, was in one hand, Kelvin in the other for most of the afternoon. Again, I didn’t mind the exhaustion. I was desperate to keep the time going. But eventually, as it always does, the music stopped – and my heart did too.

                The night before, we had made cupcakes and donation bags filled with clothes we picked out for them.

They left in groups, and each was harder than the last. Everyone hugged everyone at least three times, then walked away, heads down, clutching their new clothes.

                Kelvin grabbed my hand and pulled me into a hug. We stood there for what I wish had been forever – but forever ends surprisingly fast.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“Yes, I will miss you.” He said, looking up at me.

I went around the group, hugging everyone multiple times and saying our final goodbyes. Emma smiled as he hugged me again; we scratched each other’s backs and kept saying, “I’ll miss you. I love you.”

                Tears welled up in my eyes as I dragged my feet toward the car. Seven of us piled in, squeezing tightly together. The dam behind my eyes threatened to break, and burned my retinas. The gravel crackled under the tires as we pulled out of Maasai Camp for the last time.

It was when we passed Kelvin’s group one last time that the dam broke. Ben rolled down the window and we stretched our hands out toward the kids. Kelvin looked through the car and met my eyes. He flashed his beautiful smile one last time before he disappeared from my view and me from his.

The reason you refuse to think about leaving is not to make it easier. By no means should you ever close yourself off – that’s the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do.

I’ve always had trouble exposing myself to someone, and opening my heart. But it has come so easily on this trip. Every smile, hug, and kiss is like a key. Unlocking something inside me and opening my heart wider and wider. Each new child, bursting with energy, challenges me in so many ways. They challenge me to open up, to try harder, to give everything I can possibly give. Every face and name is burned into my brain, and woven into my heart like threads of silk. These kids have not just become new friends. They are family who have broken down my walls and built something beautiful with the rubble. They turn every second into a story to tell.

It’s because of the kids that my mind, heart, and soul are more open – and my life more beautiful.