It's not often that the moon eclipses, and even rarer that for a few moments in a couple of years the moon is completely aligned with the planet and the sun. There's a beautiful song about eclipses and the rising and waning of the moon, and how it seems to resemble the people you meet and leave in life... there's a time when the moon is bright and full, and when it shies away into the darkness... just as there is a time of meeting, there is a time of parting.
Dad was already home and packing his bags when we arrived at close to midnight. Our day to Belgium, and tour of the picturesque 'medieveal' city of Gent went so smoothly that even the weather cleared the moment we arrived and as we wandered the cobbled streets aligned with history and culture.
As soon as we paid and got out of the parking garage, we realised there was a big problem. The automatic window on the driver's side didn't want to go back up... and though it was sunny outside, nobody felt like driving two and a half hours at over 120km/hr on the highway in freezing temperature. So we called the car rental... and got referred to the car manufacturer... and were referred to an insurance company... then got referred to the Dutch Automobile Association... after an hour or so on the phone (with ridiculously high international roaming tariff!) we finally then got transferred to the Belgium Automobile Association. A repair man was promised within thirty minutes.
But it turned out to be another two hours before the window was fixed, and before we could leave the city. Perhaps the city didn't want us to leave, or at least, our memories of our mini adventure in Gent would never leave us.
I walked up to dad as soon as I came home, as I hadn't seen him for a day. We chatted a bit, connecting like we should have but never had much chance in the last two weeks because he was almost never at home. But I guess better late than never. How frail and thin he looked, the gray hairs on his head catching the light of my bedroom ceiling light. We chitchatted as he packed his bags. To be honest he has very little with him, and very little to take with him... and often when he picks up something he would then say I probably need it much more, and stuff it into my hand. It's typical of him, being so thrifty and stingy toward himself, but so giving and kind to me (especially).
A couple of moments our fingers touched. I felt the roughness of his darkened fingers, dark from years of smoking and years of work. It was an emotional touch, one that was accentuated by the fact that as he packed his bags he began the 'pre-departure' talk on how I should take care of myself, how I should eat well and mind my health, and that if there's anything I ever need, he'll support me to the end...
These kind of 'pre-departure' talks always seem to make my heart waver and eyes go moist. It's in those words of reminder and in the 'take cares' that reveal that despite dad not daring or not wanting to say it, he does care about us... or, perhaps, at least about me. I replied in a way I have often done, and out of my heart. Like so many times in the past, I told him that he is one to take good, good care of himself, to mind his health and to be happy. I told him he can enjoy his retirement without a care or worry in the world, and that nobody else is able to guarantee his own health and happiness than himself. Dad listened and looked down. He didn't say anything, but I believe in the eyes that avoided me temporarily, there was a shimmer from the way words you hear seem to touch you deeply.
Mum was next door in her room and she too was packing her bags. She and I still have to have our 'take care' talk, but for the most of the last two weeks, I've been with her and telling her that she too needs to live well, live happily and be free from misery and confrontations. I'm sure she knows how I feel, and there's nothing I've not already said.
I stood in the corridor in a position from which I could see both my dad and my mum in their separate rooms, separated by walls, busy packing their separate bags and lives. In truth, deep down I still had that sliver of hope I had been holding onto since childhood that they would be happy and loving together... but at that moment, though not a new moment of suddenly realising something for the first time, as I stood between the two of them, each in their own rooms and in their own separate lives, I knew it was for the best. It was, and is, meant to be. This way noone gets hurt...
I watched the both of them doing their own thing, ironically their backs were facing one another. Both middle aged, and aging more. Both my parents, and forever more. My mind flashed back to the arguments and 'cold wars' they've had since I was a child, to the arguments and 'cold wars' they had in the past two weeks... silently I said to myself I have done more than enough... I have said more than enough, and I must let go again, let go and let them just be. As I walked downstairs, I looked back at both of them again, wondering the next time will be when I will get to say good night and sleep well to them both. Silently, I wished them both good health and happiness.
In a couple of hours, it is time to say goodbye.
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