Those are the words of a famous poet, and every time I leave home I am reminded of those words.
I called mum just before I boarded the flight. She sounded tired. And then it struck me: from now on I'll only be able to hear her voice, at best perhaps see grainy her on the computer. I will not be able to touch her, hold her like I've gotten so used to doing...
Just before leaving home, I lay next to her. Mum did not want to get up. She looked so sad, and said very little. She also looked like she was in pain. I put her arm around me, and she stroked my hair, my forehead. "Go and work hard..." she said, wishing me luck on my studying and in my exam next week.
I did nor cry. I was perhaps over crying. But I can't speak for mum. I stayed by her bedside till the very last minute. I stroked her thin arms, held her hands. In my heart was a quiet calm. No fear, no regrets, no frustrations, no deep heart-wrenching pain as I had anticipated and dreaded. Just this calm. "May you be well... May you be happy... May you be at ease... May you eat and be healthy..." I wished mum silently with my eyes closed. I could smell the scent of mint, the scent of the massage oil that she uses to ease the bloated feelings of her bowels and to momentarily drift away and be free from discomforts. Mum said very little. When I looked at her, she had her eyes closed most of the time and was frowning.
I got up and inspected my suitcase again, and returned to touch mum again. This I did several times. Mum did not want to get up, which was disappointing, for it was hard to see her lying there as I was about to leave for an indefinite period of time. But again I reassured her I would be back again.
"Go quickly," mum said, "Don't keep the driver waiting..." It was a bit disappointing, as I was hoping she'd say something "touching". But I imagine she was saddened (and tired... It as barely six in the morning).
I hugged mum one last time, gently, for I was afraid to hurt her open wound and to push too hard on her frail body frame. "Take good care! Eat well and exercise!" I reminded her again, "Next time I see you, I hope to see be stronger and gain more weight..."
Even as I said those words, there was a disturbing image mum getting thinner and even more frail than she is now, if it is even possible.
I stroked her arm again, and silently wished positive energy and healing vibes would pass through me to her. I left her room, and headed out to put on my shoes, and almost made it out the door. But I turned back again, and went to mum's room one last time. She had her thin arm placed over her eyes. "Take good care, mama. I'm really going." Perhaps I should not have come back and said good bye again, for it would only prolong the pain and the inevitable leaving.
I left mum lying in her bed, left her in the hands of my brother and the carer. I left behind four months of many difficult days and many tough moments of agony and frustrations. But it is all in the past now.
I boarded the taxi, and my cousin came along to the airport with me. It probably made the journey to the airport less sad, less difficult.
It was a clear, beautiful day. Another day I left home to go back home...
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