With bags packed, salutations sent, and intentions spoked, we aim to leave before the morning light. The 5 AM alarm signals us to the station but no bus greets us. At least the sun never fails. No choice remains but to tail-tuck a stay until evening. Groundhogged, we prepare our second final Iftar with a Sinatra croon and Frenchman duo. I ride slack on a motorbike through the Siwan streets - a last leg’s stretch. Bus number two is met with defeat, fully packed without a spare seat. Siwa, unabashed by its efforts to thwart escape, welcomes our listless crash back into its expecting arms. We walk halfway home only to stop for tea and shisha. The market sings with life. I listen to its song. I am quiet. I am at peace. I find content with being somewhere, just being, and looking around at the present’s presence. I feel safe in my body, and more, in my bones.
Columbu sits by the stairs, ambient duck gurgles announce our sequel’s sequel. “3 times goodbye,” he tells us, “must stay in Siwa.” I will miss him. Columbu ’s eyes close gently and his lips loosen, comfortingly. There’s his smile. There, in him, is a home.