Nothing Prepares You for The Ache

Please gift me a lifetime subscription to tissues

But no, tissues are just not enough for the deluge of tears. You’d think that I would be used to saying goodbye to my son by now. Six years ago, when he left for college for a 5-year dual degree course, I was a secret mess even if I hid it behind a lot of fake smiling.

You’d think I’d be a proud mama, considering the fact that he’s headed abroad for his PhD. You’d be absolutely right, yes. But that does not mean I have to give up the parental privilege of hurting inside each time I think that the day of his departure is drawing closer.

Nothing prepares you for the ache of saying goodbye. As I go around our home, the sight of every little thing squeezes my heart. The tears have a mind of their own — and feel quite free to flow at the slightest provocation. Sometimes, for no reason other than because I have a mushy mommy heart.

Nothing can prepare me for the ache of . . .

Not being able to wake my son up with some baby talk. Don’t judge me on the baby talk! It is just a ritual we have and enjoy.
Making a grocery list that seems painfully bare. Because, his favorite items will be conspicuous by their absence. No cheese, no chocolates, no sweet corn.
Not seeing him smile at me each time I catch his eye.
Crying into my breakfast with my gaze fixed on the empty seat that is his. We enjoyed breakfasting together.
Trying to decide what to make for lunch and realizing the menu has suddenly shrunk as I won’t cook anything he loved.
Worrying if he has had his lunch/dinner/dessert. Yes, dessert. My boy has a sweet tooth.
His dad refusing dessert and suggesting we think of it only when he visits. I am diabetic, but he doesn’t have to pretend to be!
The sight of his face on video calls— and seeing that he has had a haircut and shave — and looking, oh so adorable and young and the frustration that I can’t hug him.
The vacuum in my arms.
Hanging up the multiple clip hanger on the clothesline only to realize that there’s nothing to hang there — and missing the 15 pairs of underwear that went into the laundry every week.
Not hearing him sing and hum as he went about his stuff at home.
Imagining his voice gently saying “thank you mi” for every little thing. I mean, every. little. thing.
Not being able to make his favorite foods — especially pizza.
Watching pizza ads and wanting to cry. He loves pizza.
Seeing the impression of his head on his pillow. Yes, I avoid fluffing out the pillow for the longest time.
The sight of his tiny t-shirt in my closet that I keep out of nostalgia. And the sight of his messy closet I stand in front of, just so I can inhale.
His dad’s choked voice, filled with pride over his son getting into a prestigious institute and adjusting to the new life.
The sight of his house slippers in their spot near the door and thinking he’ll be back at 4 pm —except, he wont.
The space in the house. Oh, the space and the deafening quiet! The sight of his desk and the empty chair with the skewed cushion.
The half-filled water bottle on the floor near his bed— that I must empty. Only, he won’t be around for me to scold him.
A neighbor bringing something over for him, and realizing he’s away!
His neat book shelves. Categorized by topic and interest. His school shelves, a mess.
The pencil shavings in a cup on his desk. And the memory of his hand holding the pencil, sketching.
The two huge bags of books he’s kept aside to give away.
The long empty evenings and his chatter. Oh, the silence.
His laughter which turns into a guffaw as he watches comedy on TV.
Coming across his drawings, doodles and sketches in the most unexpected of places.
Stumbling on a sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve tucked under his clothes— a letter he wrote to his Grandma. In heaven.
The thought that he wont be home for my birthday this month. Or his, in November.
Finding his notebook in his backpack on the dining table chair where he left it. As I am about to place it on his shelf, I am prompted to just peek at his handwriting — and feel overwhelmed at finding this: “How I would like to see myself after 10 years” running to three pages.