Devastated would be an understatement for what I felt the past week. A horrible, numbing feeling that I waded through as best as I could by immersing myself in activities that involved things that I loved like music, art and coffee, not necessarily in that order, in an effort to be inspired enough to wake up when the morning comes.

I went to gigs, as music is thoroughly therapeutic, as much as laundry. I took as many photos as I could, delighting in captured smiles of new as well as the familiar faces. I overworked on long overdue projects just to take my  mind off the aching. After more than a year, I stepped once again at a theater, an old love, armed with a camera to hide my face with. And after the performance, walked to the harbor, breathing that mundane well-loved smell of the sea, tainted as it was, and I took it all in.

There I sat, in chair and table still wet from a recently concluded rain shower that I missed, with a cup of coffee, staring at a lonely sunset at the edge of the sea. A perfectly forlorn afternoon for my thoughts and ill emotions. I thereafter wandered amongst the stalls, looking for a unique toy to bring home to my child. Finding nothing, I wandered into the thoroughfare, steps in the direction of the east. Hidden songs from a play list thought long-deleted from the days when I still owned a Nokia for a phone wafted into my ears.

And there, just as I was crossing the wide highway, I read a text message from a much-loved old friend, and I was overwhelmed with such joy that tears sprung from the empty pools that were my eyes and streamed down my pallid cheeks. I was asked a question, and it was yet, the sweetest three yeses I’ve ever given, other than my daughter, anyone. I may be a nomad, but my heart still knows a home. And today, home beckons.

With a spring on my steps, I took the train. Across from me a woman sat. She had on a pair of pants that reminded me of a pants my mother owned. And I was reminded, just as well, that one day, when my own pants, the single one that I packed for the visit to the family home, was worn by my sister, I stole a pair hanging from the clothesline, loved it, took it as my own, and it was my favorite pair for 10 years. It was my mom’s. And it’s just like this pair this woman across from me has on.

I miss my mom.

It still hurts when I think of her. It still hurts that I never see her in my dreams, or feel her presence when I am awake. And yet, today, my mom was with me. In a pair of faded black pants…

This pain, incomprehensible to anyone who has not lost his or her own mother, and to anyone who has not been a mother herself.

Woe to you who judge me as someone who is too caught up in my own life, when you only worry about where to take your inspiration from, or the money to buy that expensive pair of shoes or bag you deem yourself so deprived, while everyday I face the problems of what it takes to be a mother, and how best to prevent the vicious cycle of faulty, unhealthy relationships.

And I am faulty, as I have always been, and yet do not think yourself above me, unless you are perfectly faultless. Be humane. Do not hide behind your perceived alliances, or your own weaknesses. Own up to your issues, simply because, we all have them.

My feet may take me to places far and unfamiliar, to mingle with other feet as rooted or as light that they go in the direction as the wind goes, but my heart knows a home, and home is calling, for a much needed respite from all the evils of these wanderings.

 

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