She talked about how her kids would write her lots of short notes on pieces of paper. Messages of love or random everyday sweet nothings that are too mushy to blurt out.
I am transported at once to a big pink room I once shared with my sister when we were in elementary school. After arriving from the US, we stayed at my grandmother’s old mansion. Mom took out the division of one room and opened it up to fit 2 beds. Between these two beds across was a large study table that was always untidy. Before school, my sister and I would write little messages that mom would read within the day.
Years later, she would mention those letters to us. Then she’d bring out a whole scrapbook filled with letters from me and my sister that she saved and collected over the years.
Just me, myself, at home, doing not so important things. The hubs doing his thing. The little one watching cartoons. Just like that, we’re engrossed in our own little lives. Finding peace in that moment. Contentment.
Especially when I need it the most.
I go home because dad’s there. I need to. I have to. Because he’s there. Nothing more.
I go home because “going home” meant getting a stress free life even for just a while. When I am surrounded by an easy way sort of living. But now that’s not the same.
I go home to an emotionally charged atmosphere where people I used to know are somehow not the same anymore. Since mom died, it has become just too much not just because of a simulation of more responsibilities, but the thought of working and then efforts go unnoticed, unappreciated, and most of the times, advice are strewn aside (why did you even ask me in the first place?).
There’s a long vacation coming up.
But sometimes, like tonight, I’d choose to stay put. Just here.