Going Home

Going back home is never easy. In my case this going back home to the country of my birth this time, was extremely painful. The plane ride was an uneventful one, and by my estimation we were almost at our destination. I find myself feeling uneasy. I couldn’t figure out the reason for this kind of sixth sense of knowing something I didn’t know. My eyes span the passengers in my line of vision, until they rest on this man’s hands. I blinked and looked again. The man’s hands looked like my dad’s. A well of sadness welled up within me. I feel like a failure. I feel like a failure, because I had failed my Dad. I welcomed the gentle sobs that softly shook my body. It was 12 noon. Shortly after, the pilot is preparing us for landing.

Getting through customs took forever, literally it seemed. Finally free, I triumphantly walk out into the sunshine. Looking around, I saw my oldest sister who had flown in from England. My sister who lived in Canada, like I did, was nowhere to be found. Before I could think, my subconscious boldly blurted out,

“How’s daddy?” Was there a slight pause, a hesitation? I couldn’t tell.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, he’s gone.”

I felt like my whole body was reeling. What did she say?

“Huh?”

My sister hugged me, as my knees buckled and she led me to a seat that a gentleman had hastily vacated for me. I realised then that there were people in the open air airport lounge who were all witnessing my pain. For a moment I saw their concerned and sad faces, these strangers whom I will never meet, but who shared such a poignant moment in my life. I crumple down onto the comfortable seat. My thoughts were so jumbled. I felt sick to my stomach, my mind couldn’t, didn’t want to accept what my sister had said. I had a headache coming on. How can this be? This can’t be true!! I was on my way, I was on the plane!? I am here and I wanted to talk to him, to see him alive one more time, just one more time. To tell him that I was sorry for failing him and that I loved him.

Finally we get into the car and head towards my sister’s home that she and her husband maintained here, even though they live abroad. The neighbour who lived next door insisted on accompanying her, for moral support. On the long hour’s drive, we have a chance to talk. I wanted to know everything, but my sister wisely just kept saying that we would talk later. It actually gave me a chance to be with my thoughts, and have some cherished moments with God. ‘He never gives you more than you can bear,’ this is the all pervading thought that I hold on to, on the long drive going home.
© Aloma Durity-Allen