Clot - Home

I have not been back since but as we drive to the house now I am surprised by the sense of familiarity and my own calm. My wife reaches over and gently squeezes my thigh.  

“What are your thinking?” She asks as our rental idles in traffic.

“She sounded calm…almost happy.” I say with a grimace.

“Shouldn’t she be happy to see her son?”

“I suppose.” I say shrugging. “She’s probably going to be happier to see you. You’re a lot easier on the eyes.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad.” She says smiling as the traffic eases.

The traffic alternates between standstill and free flowing and it is clear, at least to us, that there might be entirely too many cars on these narrow roads. I guess this is not different to many places around the world but the disparity between the haves and the havenots is more visible when a country is just short of 2000sq miles.

Large houses are alternatively adjacent to or opposite shantys and this is always a recipe for social anxiety and invariably crime. As we near my mother’s house what I remembered as a mostly rural area has become a more densely populated middle to upper class neighborhood.

The street was now paved and wider than I recalled. More than a fresh coat of lime green paint gave the house a different look. It was the presence of life that made the real difference.

The sun was high in the sky and as we rolled to a stop in front the house a gentle breeze seemed to be welcoming us. The house built by my mother’s father is also warm, modest and comfortable. The modifications made by my mother over the years though, have hidden most of the house’s beauty in favor of privacy. 

She has always been so private, isolated from me. The emotions come rushing back, suddenly I’m eight again and I am filled with anxiety. Often I have felt more than history and circumstance between us, preventing communication and now the feeling is overwhelming. For a moment we sit silently as I try to find a sense of clam. My hairs stand on end.

“Richard, are you okay?” My wife asks.

“I’m fine.” I say reaching over to kiss her.

“You look pale darling.”

“You’re the pregnant one.” I say smiling. “Lets go in.”

As we approach the wrought iron gate my mother emerges from the house. Her dark brown eyes are alert and she looks younger than her years, still I can tell that her illness has taken a toll. Her steps are more deliberate and the simple act of smiling now seems to require a considerable effort. Her hair, which was a streaky gray when last I saw her, is now completely gray and neatly pinned up in a bun.

 She opens the gate and reveals a long white dress, adorned by deep red roses. Even struggling with illness, she is a beautiful sight.