I woke at four in the morning to call and make sure my mother was ready for the car I ordered to drive her to the airport, then fell back asleep listening to the river. By the time I woke properly and stumbled off the boat to collect my child for the school run grandma was already settled at the airport.
The morning was bright and warm but fragmented with sorrow; the first act of the day was drying the tears of a child who wishes more than anything that he could move back home.
I empathize with his pain – living so far away from the familiar and beloved is like having an open wound that never heals.
Today is the fourth anniversary of moving to the United Kingdom, and I feel just as conflicted as the day I stepped on the airplane. Having my mother here for a month underscored that fact.
I know that she loves us, and enjoys the month she spends here every year, but I am an only child and I moved to the other side of the planet. There is no solution to this quandary.
My son is right to cry; it is very hard to say goodbye to someone or something you love.
Happy Independence Day.