Notes from Cottonwood

We're in the lounge at the airport. The mountains are out, white and sharp, the way they were the first morning. A man in the line is selling hot tea in paper cups and the whole lounge smells of cardamom.

Today a new country is proclaimed, here in Talas. I haven't read all of it; the television is on in the corner and the volume is off. The people around us are quiet.

Thank you to everyone who read this, who wrote, who brought soup. We came to a place we didn't understand and we leave understanding a small part of it. I'll keep the blog up, for the photos.

Salam, and rahmat. Beth.

Everything is in boxes again. The kitchen table is a pile of cartons and Sam sits on top with a book. Linda gave us her good frying pan, "so you remember Texas". Marat the guard gave Lily a tiny felt horse his wife made. Rahim ata wouldn't take any money for the last kilo of apples; he pressed them into my arms and said something I understood only the last word of: "Ohio".

I tried to write down all the people to say goodbye to and the list is too long. I'll send a long letter from the airport.

It was on the television this morning. The American flag came down at the Territory offices, and the news showed it for a long time, in silence. Mark watched it standing up. Then he said, "Well." And that was it.

The base itself isn't going anywhere, but the territory's over and the contractor families are being rotated out. Our contract ends with this month. Flights are booked for the 9th.

I don't know what to feel. Sad, mostly. Lily asked if the neighbors would still be our neighbors. I said yes. I hope I wasn't lying.

The commissary had no turkeys left at all, so we had a chicken. A big one. Chynara and Mirbek came again, with boorsok and a jar of apricot jam. We all went around the table and said thanks and Lily said "for the lanterns", which I still don't understand.

Mirbek said grace in Iradi and Mark said "Amen" a little late. It was the best grace of the year.

I can't vote here, of course. But the neighbors can, and the whole lane across the road was out in their good coats. Chynara said, "this is the last one like this", and when I asked what she meant she said it's a feeling. She wouldn't say more.

From our window the polling station looked like a wedding: lights, tables, folding chairs, children running between the grown-ups. The line went around the corner. Someone brought tea in thermoses for the people waiting.