March is fast coming to a close. On Tsushima, and the rest of Japan, that means a carousel switch of teachers as the end of third year contracts arrives. In America we don’t have this constantly shifting system where you jump from school to school every three years. Certainly, there are teachers that do this on their own accord, but it isn’t nationally mandated.

It’s strange saying goodbye to a bevy of coworkers whose faces I know, but names still escape me. I have something like a hundred plus coworkers throughout my five schools and there are several people I’ve never had a face to face conversation with. Yet, by virtue of being the only American guy on this entire island and therefore all my schools, everyone knows my name. There’s an uncomfortable pinch as I’m bid farewell and unable to reciprocate stating their name. There’s a trusty fallback to “Sensi” and there’s a decent amount that I have an inkling of their name, but there aren’t any office signs to be had or room decals stating titles. Instead, I offer as genuine of a goodbye as I can, and then realize the odds are heavily stacked against me ever seeing that person again.

I’m entering the season of Spring having spent the final two months of Winter as a hacking mess. As I’m wont to do, I want to downplay the effects of having bronchitis for almost a full two months, along with the early addition of vicious spring allergies, but I’m trying to learn how to be more forthright in my emotional expression. A little more honest, a little more tender. I’ve had bronchitis or pneumonia about four or fives times since 2016. That’s not a good thing. In fact, it’s a direct response to pushing my body beyond its limits either through work, travel, or a combination of the two.

I’ve learned that I can cough so hard that I’ll see stars. I’ve had moments where gasping for breath I’ve been reduced to a staggered state. The real fuckery of it all is the way it ebbs and flows. There’s this calm that would arrive around nine or ten at night that would shine like fools gold in the river of misguided hope— and I’d go wading in after it. But surely as the sun rises, by morning I’d be back to a deep, smoker’s wheeze. The type that you’d attribute to some long dead relative who smelled of stale menthols and tv static.

In the midst of this beleaguered physical state— the past decided to rear up and wallop me in the face. I felt like a wayward Looney Tunes character the way my head spun after being messaged by an old, unresolved love. She had followed me on Spotify. Something that I wasn’t notified of, but flashed like Vegas neon as soon as I saw it. Her online presence was nonexistent. There weren’t any ways to contact her and I thought for a brief second that she would have thrived as a CIA operative if it weren’t for her giant heart and empathy. Those don’t seem to be ideal tools for state intelligence work if history is anything to go on.

So, I did what I’ve done hundreds on time before. I made a playlist. Except this time I put my nickname for her as the title and waited. It went quick. There was a playlist response within a day with my own nickname. My heart wanted to burst out of my chest like a derby horse at the start line. This happened on a Sunday. There were so many things I wanted to say. To resolve. Mainly, I just wanted to know that she was alright. That she was happy and healthy. But that’s not what you put in a Spotify playlist title to start. But when you do expand to insert something into the bio, it helps if you add your own email and see how it plays out.

“Hey, it’s been a while.”

That’s a hell of way to restart a conversation that ended with a feeling you’d never see each other again. Except unlike the teachers I work with, I know her name. Hell, I still know where the engagement ring I bought for her is. I still knew the giant albatross of grief I carried having spent the last few months of our relationship wondering if I was going to experience the person I loved end their own life.

There were loving, supportive, but respectfully distant exchanges as we updated each other on where life currently was at for ourselves. She expressed little surprise at me being in Japan. And while I was shocked about her making it to Montana, ultimately, it shouldn’t have been a surprise.

It felt like a gift— being able to talk again for a little while and see that she was healthy and whole. That mixture of fear and grief had taken the form of an anchor— mooring a part of my emotional well being. Getting to release the chains and sail away— getting the best version of closure I hadn’t even dreamed for— felt nothing short of miraculous.

All the while my body struggled to keep me upright for the entirety of most days. I’d read, listen to music, sleep, and forgive myself for lacking the will to write anything of length or interest.

All the while— the gentle rasp of old paper turning providing the soundtrack. All the while asking myself “What if it’s a gift?”

All the while— all the while.