The expression you had on your face when I asked of our mail address is still etched onto the threads of my memory.
You never knew the intentions behind my query; never thought twice about it.
I remember I received a puzzled look, along with a hasty recitation. And then you embraced me tightly, whispering something along the lines of "I'm proud of you," and "I knew you could do it."
When you let go, you smiled faintly; it was fleeting. I told you not to cry. You promised me you wouldn't, yet you still dared to shed a few tears.
I turned to my father. Wordlessly, he wrapped his strong arms around me. Eyes gleaming and hands shaking, he held me for as long as he was able to. If it weren't for my whine of protest, I wonder if he would've held me to the end of time.
Reluctantly, Father pushed me towards the rest. My aunts, siblings, and cousins; they were in hysterics. When I think about it now, I wonder how couldn't they be. I did not quite understand, at the time, why my aunts rushed towards me, why my sisters sobbed uncontrollably, and why my cousins tackled me with urgency. It was overwhelming to have them as my family.
After a round of goodbyes and kisses on the cheek, I declared my departure. As the front door swung open and my ride came into view, you cried in abandonment, no longer faithful to the promise you made earlier.
It must have been hard. Your tears expressed your distress well enough.
I beamed at you, not to lighten the burden on your shoulders nor to reassure you. I was selfish enough to do it for my own self. I do not remember how you responded, for I was preoccupied with the thoughts of what would lie ahead.
I vaguely recall hearing you wail whilst I unloaded my luggage into the boot of the car. I did not turn to you. I greeted my friends and hopped in. I did spare you a wave, though, as if it would compensate to what I hid from you.
And for that, dear mother I am terribly sorry.
