Sometimes all I want, is to go home.
My friend Amina had told me that her mother had a sweet smile. She knew what her mother would smell like, and would often find it hard to sleep without that smell. One day her mother was out late for “work”, and Amina told me that that was the first time she stayed up till 5 am. She just could not keep her eyes closed, until her mother came and laid by her side. I told her that her habit was a little bit odd for a twelve year old girl, and I told her that she was being childish. But that was two years ago.
We were sitting under a banyan tree and drinking our favorite mango juice, sipping from the plastic straws, listening to the sound of bubbles form inside the little colorful carton as we sipped. Amina stopped sipping and looked down at her feet. A brief moment later, she told me, “Sometimes, all I want, is to go home.” I said, “Me too.” We were tired from school, and started our way back home. That day I went home to the orphanage to the smell of biryani, because a donor had kindly brought in some food for the children. And Amina went home to find her mother hanging from the ceiling fan.
How it takes one moment for a place once beloved as a home, a shelter, to become nothing but a closed space full of horror and dread, I learned when Amina told me about it last night.
Because two years later, last night, I heard Amina’s slightly deeper voice tell me, that she had seen her mother dead, and it was the first time in my life, that I felt greatful for not having a mother. I don’t think I could ever watch her leave me like that. To go home, only to be brought face to face, with death.
A sweet little note from the author: This particular piece of writing is purely fictional. None of the characters in this short story are true or living. Thanks for reading.