I cry a lot when I am within your walls Mom. More than anywhere else. I suppose I’m distracted when I’m not here or when I’m busy. When sometimes out of the blue the door to your front loading washing machine opens as if it was touched by an invisible hand. I get the feeling it was your doing. It has never ever happened before, and I know it’s not just a coincidence. I know it was you, sending me a sign, letting me know you are here. I feel and see you everywhere. From all the strange noises and things that happen here, I am keenly aware that you are around me. So close, that often I cry for you because I can’t touch you and hug you. Like a lover remembers the touch and smell of a loved one, I can still feel your hugs. I can even smell you and feel the soft skin of your cheek on mine. As hard as it is, I now know that I made the right choice deciding on where I want to spend the rest of my life. I fear I am too weak to endure this sense of loss every day and I take comfort in the distance, not being exposed to all that is you at such close range. Even though I couldn’t carry you any closer within my heart. Here, in your home, the place of so much pain, your sorrow and hardship, it is here that it echoes the story of your life and brings me up close with the losses of mine. This loss will never go away, but I need the distraction of some distance. I can’t breathe new life into those walls, because these walls are not the same without you. Nothing can cancel this out, at least not for me.
I know you understand now and my heart has been an open book for you to see all there is. All the love, all the pain and yet, still the desire to go on and like you one day leave behind my own legacy. Not because I have to prove something, but because of the meaning and purpose I have worked towards. I am nearly packed now and I am taking little with me back to the states. Everything that is coming is special and there will be dotted reminders of you and my past throughout my future home, but I will also leave enough room to tell my own story. And what a story it is turning out to be. They say that there are three things a person can do to live eternally. One is to have a child. Two is to plant a tree. And three is to write a book. I am not going to make number one anymore, but I will definitely plant a tree and perhaps the idea of a book is now closer than ever. Maybe it wasn’t time to write it before, because there was simply too much of my story that hadn’t unfolded yet.