A suitcase
was packed that night as well, a small case with functional items. What was not
in it and yet bore heavily on me was a bitter sweet sense of a new
beginning. I was heading to the hospital
to deliver my first child. The baby
ready to break free, I scared of the labour, unsure of the responsibility and
missing my freedom already.
It has been
a wonderful 18 years since that night. Multiple suitcases are being packed at
the moment. They all lie open in her room. Shoes, clothes, books and curry
pastes vying for space giving in only to the dogs who want to be packed as
well. The mess always bothered me, all these years I have screamed myself
hoarse about the clutter in her room but now I know the mess shall be missed.
It is time for another new beginning.
She is ready to break free again. I am scared to let her go, unsure of
how she will cope in a faraway land and missing her already.
Year 12 for
us has been like the last page of a favourite book, speeding along to the end
of a quest with an apprehensive emptiness waiting at the finish line. Each day
had an adventure of its own, deadlines, essays, scores, mocks, SATs,
applications and not to forget the endless parties, farewells and night outs.
We laughed, fought and sulked through it all in equal measure. Doors were
slammed and horns were locked, however the laughs were easy and often. Each day
she inched closer to her independence. Each day I held on to the past. Both of
us changing, both of us fluid, she in control, I just trying to breathe.
Standing
among the accumulation of the life of a little girl she no longer is, I look at
myself in her mirror. Am I too old to enjoy the wonder of the unknown? Too selfish
maybe or just the same old me trying to hold on to things the way they were. She
enters the room with a grin, “It is strange you know how my friends were all
teary eyed today.” Flinging her bag on
her bed she flops on the floor petting the dog. “Of course I will miss them,
but it is time to make new friends. Is it not? I think it’s silly to moan. ” I
quickly check the mirror again for an errant tear, god forbid. Sometimes
thoughts escape involuntarily and form words that are audible. I can’t believe
myself saying it even as I do, “You have been home for 18 years, won’t you miss
us?” These are the moments when you want your hand to physically close your
mouth shut. Thankfully the words are not suspended in the air for long and my
girl shows no hint of having caught the immense baggage the lines carried.
“There’s Whatsapp, Skype.. what’s to miss. You will practically see me pooping
if you want.” She gets busy on her phone and the dog and I leave her alone.
At dinner
she has her University reading list up for discussion. Over rice and fish we
debate various sources of procuring the 12 books. Amazon wins hands down. It
has got all the books and will ship them in time. Talk about being ready,
everyone seems to be ganging up on poor old me. Not like a few books less would
have made a difference to travel dates, but one can hope.
I think of
all the times we lay under the covers reading pop-up books, Enid Blytons and a
host of other mystery stories. In the later years we continued this ritual by
reading each other’s fiction and untold facts. Her legs propped over my body,
her curls always in the way of her reading and my heart in wonder of the
precious time. I take courage from the fact that I can see her poop if I want
and tread on thin ice, “So once you are on your own, will you add me to your
social media?”
“Are you
serious ma? No way!” she laughs and dinner is done.
She is
ready, happy, and rearing to step forward. Her joy is infectious and a balm to
my spirit. I ready myself to my own journey with a twice cut umbilical cord.
Are all new beginnings this bitter sweet?
