Why do goodbyes feel like forever?  

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A question that I still don’t know the answer to.

 

Today is September 27, 2023 at 2:07pm. We just dropped off my sister Marcie. She’s gone. We won’t see her again for a year and a half. No calling everyday, talking about the stupid little things that annoy us. No sending each other uplifting text messages. No sharing Tiktoks. Nothing. Maybe a half an hour a week to talk.  

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She is serving a mission. Ever since I heard the words, "You are assigned to labor in the Washington D.C. South Mission and will prepare to preach the gospel in the English language,”  it became a countdown. 

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Home MTC started on September 18th. I counted down.  

 

One month until she leaves.  

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Three weeks.  

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Two weeks.   

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One.  

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And just like that, she’s gone. It felt like I blinked, and she disappeared.   

  

I mean it's not like we didn’t say our goodbyes. Many tears were shed. All of us, stood together, hands wrapped around her, our tear-stained faces, attempting to smile. But how can you smile when goodbye feels like forever?   

  

“Why are all of these people happy? I don’t understand.” Marcie said.  

  

I don’t either. I still don’t. Goodbyes suck. They hurt.  

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People ask me, “How do you feel, Taylor?”   

I tell people how proud I am of her. I tell them that she is the first in our family to ever serve. She truly is a pioneer.  

  

But what I don’t say? I don’t say how much it hurt to watch her walk away into that prison that holds her captive. I don’t tell about how much it hurts to glance over and know that she is right there, but I can’t hug her, talk to her, or even just see her.  

  

All I get is one call, once a week, for maybe half an hour.  

  

So I count down.   

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I count down until the day that she comes home.

  

484 Days.  

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21 Hours.  

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33 Minutes.