Yesterday afternoon, I was stopped by a man whom I have seen several times while walking home from work. “You must teach at the school over there,” he said, pointing over my shoulder. He smiled and rocked slightly back on the stone wall so that his feet became momentarily suspended. “English teacher?” English teacher, I answered—my Japanese broken and elementary compared to his thick and easy drawl. “But Friday is my last day.”
“You’re quitting?” He wiped the sweat from his forehead before slapping both hands against his knees. A farmer, he was, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long-sleeved shirt. Down the way, several women were bagging tomatoes and cabbages to sell at the farm stand, though I doubted he had any relationship with them. The entire neighborhood was farmland: small vegetable plots, chicken coops, greenhouses filled with strawberries. They operated independently from each other despite sharing the same two acres of land. “Wow, quitting,” he said again; I nodded in shy agreement. “Where are you from?” America. “Where in America?” Near New York City, in Philadelphia.
I asked him whether he had ever traveled outside of Japan—to the United States or anywhere, really—but he shook his head. “Never. But I have watched many sunsets in America on the television!” I kept wanting to tell him that I hoped to see him again at least one more time, but the spontaneity of the conversation left me feeling flustered and unable to recall simple vocabulary. He interrupted my thoughts again. “It’s a shame I won’t see you anymore.” I nodded again, smiling.
“Take care of yourself,” we said at the same time before going our separate ways.
This is a lovely piece. You really captured the feeling of getting ready to leave a place that has meant a lot to you.