There’s this thing that I do with my partner. It’s become a habit, something we do without thinking about it.

Whenever either of us is leaving to drive anywhere, we have a ritual. It starts out with the usual things – a longer than necessary hug, a quick kiss on the temple followed by “I love you” and “drive safe.” Then later it was “text me when you get there,” then “I’ll watch for your text.” Then – we don’t say goodbye, we stopped saying goodbye when one of the cleaning staff at the school where I work said “never say goodbye, it isn’t like you’re dying. Say it like you’re going to see each other again.” So we say “I’ll see you later,” or “I’ll see you soon,” because we will. Then usually fingers brush on the doorknob as one or the other is grabbing the car keys hanging on the hook on the way out the door, and then – for all that I dread leaving for work so much that most mornings there is vomit in the bathroom sink and my body can’t stop shaking and get warm – I always walk out of the front door smiling as I make my way into that apartment complex parking lot sunrise. There’s a glance back over my shoulder before the front door closes, there’s a reassuring smile.

And it’s like – the sameness of that moment is comforting. It’s like a spell we cast to make sure that all the chaos in the outside world leaves us untouched until we can make it home and see each other again. Because – “it’s a dangerous business, stepping outside your door.” And yet we must step outside, almost every morning. We navigate polluted highways where everyone is driving too fast, we drive past flashing lights in the rearview mirror at the scene of accidents like the ones that claimed my mother’s mother’s life.

Never say goodbye. It isn’t like you’re dying. Say it like you’ll see each other again.