Last Time

"It's not like this is the last time I'll see you." My mom stands in the kitchen with her arms wrapped feebly around her torso, looking like she's trying to physically hold in the tears. My brother is leaving for university today. He's the oldest sibling of the family, but it's not the newness of a child leaving that's bothering her. It's the distance. He's going to college in Britain, a whole ocean away. And although it isn't technically a lie, he only ever comes back over Christmas break, once a year. I can see the miles apart wearing out my mother.

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"It's not like this is the last time I'll see you." Mom's face drops again. She's heard this promise before, and it's gone unfulfilled for five years now. "It's just a party, Mom," I protest wearily, leaning back on my heels. Her eyes, once smooth and full of joy from her children, have dulled into wrinkled, worried pools of blue. As a child I might have overlooked her despair, but now the heartwrenching grief was too clear. I take a few steps forward and hug her tightly, whispering assurances. "It'll be fine, Mom." She's shaking in my arms, so frail. I stay home that night.

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"It's not like this is the last time I'll see you," Dad whispered to Mom back when I was seven years old. I still remember the promise, clear as the tears racing down Mom's cheeks. He was going very far away, Dad explained, dressed all in camouflage and carrying a duffle bag twice my size. I was too young to understand what 'MIA' meant. I was too innocent to know why we brought flowers to some stone in the grass. Now I get it. Now I understand the dark circles living like parasites under Mom's eyes. Because now he haunts my dreams, too. Now I can't trust that I will see you again.