I had to get away more from my inablity to adjust than anything else. I left home as soon as I finished school, but I moved about unable to find a comfortbale place to rest, but my sprodic visits home reaffirmed why I had to go away.
“If moving ahead is just as difficult as staying, you might as well come back,” my mother said to me the last time I visited home.
Was that a month ago or longer? I can’t tell anymore, because my days and nights merged together in an entangled mess of nothingness, going from one location to another in this monster of a city. Yet, I couldn’t go back, not to the never ending work at home, not my lack of commitment. I knew I yearned the dirt under my feat and the hot sun above, still, I couldn’t bring myself to admit it had all been a mistake, the leaving has been for naught.
When I was nine years old, I suggested to my mother we forget the chores for one day and relax. Her sparkling brown eyes turned to me. She looked at me for what seemed like forever, as if she were debating what to say to me. At the ended she opted for her usual approach. She pretended I had said nothing.
For my mother, it’s not what she said, rather what she didn’t that defined her. Her day started before four in the morning and and continued well after sunset, the darkness of the night covering her weariness she pressed on. Her face covered with the creases of the un expressed thoughts, she worked quietly only uttering a word here and there to give instructions, or corrections. I attempted to elicit some words from her when I was young, but my questions were always met nothing more than a quick glance and smile at best to show how foolish I am for the asking. Soon enough, I learned it was to no avail and tried to adopt her approach of seeing words as a waste of time from the task at hand. I failed and left home because of it.
“I can’t come, not here, not like this.” I said as I prepared to leave. My mother said nothing and I couldn’t be sure if she’d heard me or not.