FIVE MINUS THREE

Four years ago, four girls stood at Sahar Airport to watch their fifth walk off. They crossed the road to stand staring over the parking lot, looking for privacy. The darkness hid tears. It felt like the end of an era.

A year later, on a fine sunny morning, each was surprised to jumping joy by a knock on their door and a smile that they hadn't seen in a long, long time..

Another year was up. Another goodbye was said. Five were reduced to four again.

Numbers were falling like skittles. A couple of months, another airport visit, another one down. One more to go, three to say goodbye, one to listen on the phone to the sounds of farewell.

Tonight. The number reduces to two. Another has promised to come back soon. We've seen that before, we've heard that before. We know what that means. It means there will be a month every two years where we will possibly see them. It means the intention to keep in touch is alive, but work and distance might take their toll. It means that the count will always be five, but the heads present will never add up.

It means, painfully, that life goes on.