Ancestral Home

 

 

I just got back attending my mom’s final rites after her sudden demise a month ago.  I stayed at the house where my mom lived her entire life: from her birth to death. The house whose walls tell lots of tales, the kitchen where the aromas of food drift and the front portal facing the garden where we gather at night to share our days, gossip and our worries. It was heaven in every sense when we were growing up. The safety of those walls can never be felt anywhere in the world with all the security systems in place.  I always felt a sense of calm and so much at peace whenever I returned. 

 

I feel the loss is monumental, and the void will never be replaced. For a baby, mom is the first smell; first touch, first taste and the first peace you make with the world. She is also the first teacher but also forever guiding light. I could make silly jokes at her expense, argue and cry like a toddler but the moment I put my arms around her shoulders there would be a warm embrace that awaits you with a big smile on my mom’s face.

 

I don’t know when I can go back to that house. I do know that the tastes of brined gooseberries, the heat from spiced sundried mangoes, and all the sundried snacks ready to fry are going to be just memories but I am sure that the moment I enter those gates I would feel young in body and mind. My mom’s arms won’t embrace me, but the walls of that house would embrace me providing comfort and safety for the inner child in me like a blanket.