Today is Goodbye
May 13, 1968
by Janine Stephenson
Ron has ordered us to leave town. "No dilly-dallying. You have to get to California now."
Several minutes after saying that, he turned to Craig. "What are you still doing here? Go. Don't let me complete this sentence while you're still in the room. Now."
It was an order. Becca grabbed the key punch machine and lugged it to the car. I packed our petitions, brochures and signs and shoved them into a paper bag. Craig unloaded keys, more receipts and notes for the Indiana staff.
Benjamin held the door while we ran out. He smiled and accused us of looting. I told him that we had just been ordered to go, so this is it. Right now.
Benjamin abandoned his post and ran to the front desk. He scribbled his address and his phone number. "Damn, I didn't think it would be right now. Can you read it? Can you read my writing?"
I told him I could, and that I will definitely keep in touch with him. I meant it. He grabbed my hand and told me that when I left, he would feel my absence.
I wished he could come with us, but I know he can't.
The lobby was busy with people coming in and trying to check out. And in between lines and people carrying luggage and making theater reservations, I grabbed him and kissed him on the lips. I didn't care who saw us.
He hugged me and said thank you. I told him he was most welcome.
Then, I ran back to the car. Craig started the engine and we headed back to the convent for the rest of our stuff.
