Portraits of a Far-Away Land

Notes from a visit back home.

I am once again back to my childhood home. I have in mind a running list of to-dos – places I wanted to feel, people I wanted to remind myself of and pasts I wanted to resolve. It is now mother’s home, and she is ridding herself of collected memories – old unnecessary memorabilia from her former lives. Certain reminders of who she was, she keeps – the early 2000s IBM computer, textbooks, notes, photos, music. But the rest need to make way for more things yet to be hoarded. Father is still missing, and his absence is a thing I have not internalized in this house with the advance of days. His picture hangs in the corner with the largesse in his eyes, ever-greying beard, and slightly off-centered browning teeth. He hasn’t aged; is trapped in time in my mind.

            Under the tree I sit as the wind brushes my skin and an ant crawls up my foot. I have discovered an addiction to nostalgia – to the things of the past that seemingly reminded me of my former self. And perhaps that is why I felt the pull to make the trip back home and search for feels, the thrills and distorted recollections.

            My sister sits across from me under the shade at this local barbecue joint. She has aged since the last time I had a real good look at her. We poke at each other’s outer lives, attempting but hesitating to peek at what our inner lives really are. This jockeying to deeper knowing has been a theme all too present with my siblings as we deflect the conversations away from the much deeper layers of who they and I have been while apart.

            They offer me a drink at the club – an ad hoc mix of supposed exciters. I down it then chug some diluter. I am feeling myself getting looser but my feet are still heavy so my shoulders parlay with the music, attempting to sequence the beats. I shut my eyes as the decibels rise and fall and shapeshift between the genres and I find myself dancing with the crowd.

            Among my extended family, grandpa’s face runs ripe with muted rage when one of his own has had too much to drink. His reactions half-a-step slower. Visible enough are his plumping cheeks when his children burst out in song for him. I take out my phone and record, perhaps in fear, or anxiety of not knowing when I would see him rendered in his fullness again.

            I take in those cool morning dews, grab a bite of mother’s cooking, listen to newly discovered scores from the motherland, sink into a tropical slumber for I know not when I will once again yield to her call to come again.