Day before departure

There is an ancient poem called the "Song of the Parting Son" (遊子吟). 
The poem describes a mother sitting and sowing the clothes of her son, who is about to leave home.
Thread by thread, she sows, but her heart is full of worry, because she is uncertain when the son will return home again. The poem ends with a rhetorical question: the gratitude of the child is like the meager blade of grass that is merely a few inches tall... can that blade of grass ever repay the glorious sunshine of many Springs?

慈母手中線， 

遊子身上衣。 

臨行密密縫，  

意恐遲遲歸。 

誰言寸草心，

報得三春暉  

(translation mine)

A loving mother with thread in hand,
[Sewing] On the clothes of a parting son;
Intimately, intimately [she] sows before [his] departure,
[In her] Heart fearing a long, long overdue return.
Who says the love of only inches of grass,
Can ever reciprocate the splendor of sunshine, Spring after Spring?

This afternoon, that very scene seemed to be replaying in our very living room. For some time, mum has noticed there is a hole on the inner seam of my winter coat. As I was packing my suitcase, she got out a needle and thread, and started to sow my coat. I watched her sit by the window, head down, fully concentrated, and carefully pulling the thin thread in and out, in and out as she nimbly mended my coat. It was a touching scene. 

When she finished sowing, I put on the coat, and felt the warmth and affection of a caring mother. The coat is no longer just a coat that I put on to brave the cold. It now has a special meaning, as if it were blessed. Indeed, how could any child  ever repay the amount of time, energy and worry of a mother?

Tucking mum into bed tonight might be the last time for a long time to come... it might even be the very last time I am sitting by her side, and watching her close her eyes to sleep. This time tomorrow, I will no longer be around. The sadness of leaving has not caught up yet, but I know and fear it will come soon enough...

Two months have already passed since I arrived her, hoping to make a difference, hoping to give mum emotional support and encouragement while she is going through a very difficult time in her life. I've been told by various people that I've done more than enough, that I've done more than most people would. It is rare, they say, for a son who lives abroad to want to spend so much time with his own mother-- especially someone who can easily just go off and enjoy his own life far, far away... More than once, complete strangers on the street have complimented me on how I treat my mum praised how wonderful our relationship appears to be.

I can only say I try... I try, because it is the only thing that we as human beings do best when we do not know what fate or life has in store for us. 

I try to make the most of the time together with mum, even if there are moments of frustration and grumpiness, especially being in a confined space together for a long time. I try to make her feel comforted, loved and cared for. Try, with my words of encouragement, with my pats on the back, with little gifts and surprises, with those little notes and photographs that I leave around the house. In the latest attempt at surprising mum and trying to inject a boost of confidence and refreshment in life,  I put up various pictures in her room. There are pictures of nature, of many places around the world mum has visited, and also beautiful pictures of moments of mum smiling, laughing and looking very happy, looking as if there were not a worry in the world. "See, it is possible to have fun, to enjoy life!" I said, as I pointed to her in the pictures and relived memories together. One picture is of mum standing next to a big tall tree, and she put her hand on the tree trunk, because the tree had a huge tumour. I remember clearly she said to me that day that even trees have tumours, and they still grow to be old and strong.

I may not be here tomorrow this time, but there are many memories that will linger. And there are many things that I have done and many things I have left behind that will fill the void after my suitcase, my wintercoat, and my physical presence has left...