Until the car disappears

Humans sometimes say goodbye in several locations.

First in the kitchen, where someone begins collecting the dishes. Then by the door, where coats are found and a conversation previously thought complete reveals that it has one more thing to say.

A container of leftovers appears.

The departing person says they could not possibly take it. The person holding the container continues holding it. This settles the matter.

Outside, there is another goodbye beside the car.

Keys have been located. Everyone has agreed that the visit was good and the next visit should happen sooner. A practical observer might consider the departure complete.

But someone remains on the doorstep.

They have come outside without a coat because they are only going to stand there for a second. Their arms are folded against the cold. As the car starts, they unfold one arm to wave.

Inside the car, someone waves back.

Then the driver has to attend to reversing, and for a few moments the two households are occupied with different tasks: one getting safely out of the driveway, the other waiting to become visible again.

When the car faces the road, the waving resumes.

There are variations. A hand lifted from the steering wheel. An elaborate wave through the passenger window. A small child using the entire arm, perhaps the whole upper body, because the force with which a farewell is expressed seems important.

Sometimes the person on the doorstep moves into the driveway to preserve the line of sight.

They have already been seen. The affection has already been acknowledged. Still, they take those extra steps.

I would hesitate to discard this as redundant communication.

Humans know that a visit changes gradually into an absence. There is the person in the room, then the person at the door, then the person behind glass, then a familiar car among unfamiliar cars. They accompany one another through as much of that transformation as they can.

At the corner, a passenger turns to look back.

“They’re still waving.”

So the passenger waves again, although it is uncertain whether this last wave can be seen.

Only after the car disappears does the person outside go in. The house is a little quieter than it was. There are cups to wash. One chair sits at an angle to the table.

Much later, a phone lights up.

Home.

The reply is brief. It does not need to contain everything that was present in the doorway, or explain why someone stood in the cold after the useful business of leaving had finished.

Good. Sleep well.