Who are you there for?

Source: Photograph of a card sent by the author’s mother in 2001

I’ve never been a fan of November. Too many unremembered, forgotten or never acknowledged moments. Then, in the northern hemisphere, the longer nights give way to seemingly longer days further south. Even when I would rather not believe in the arbitrariness of the positioning of our world into north and south, the swollen landmasses of the north distorted to diminish our southern neighbours, divided in power and colour-coded in Mercator’s projection as seen in most atlases and world maps found in schools today. November remains November in this Gregorian calendar of 1582. 

This November, however, seemingly offers little to be thankful for as we courageously face the end of each day with hope, having emptied our pockets and finding little there but the threads and knots sewn into the fabric, like our lives. But I cannot help but be hopeful, full of joy as each day I wake and look out at the countryside beyond the postage stamp balcony of my home. 

Today, as November comes to a close, I open a card that was placed in its envelope and pressed into the palm of my hand, like a folded bill, a small wad of paper that fit snuggly as my fingers curled around its edges. The giver smiled and asked me not to open it until I got home. I was beside her as the departure queue snaked back and forth until we reached the sign; “Passengers Only Beyond This Point”

My mother was returning home, to her place of birth. I remained at the end of the world, in that long thin country that stretches from the driest Atacama Desert to the cold Antarctica. 

We had been inseparable, even when apart. She gave and gave of herself and then some more to each of her four daughters. Her soft dark eyes, no longer the intense black of her youth, now smoky and glazed over with tears held back for another time, an alone time. 

At airports there is a moment when you give the last hug, a final touch, the ultimate wave of the hand and a turning away to an inner silence. 

November reminds me of these times. The goodbye season, the penultimate month of the year before it is all over. The moment when you hold yourself, squeeze hard to find strength and courage, feel past joy and look to a future knowing that this one moment is over and another about to begin. 

This is a quiet time and the noise, chaos, past hurt and disappointments are filtered through a promise, a hope lives in our imagination. And because we can imagine it, we can make it happen. In this imagining of tomorrow we make way for our humanity to rise above the rational mind. 

At that airport, my mother invited me to imagine a world where she would always be there long after the present time when all we can do for each other is be there. 

… and this was her message inside

Who are you there for?