I’m homesick.
If I’m being completely honest, I thought I would only be homesick for my physical house. House-sick, maybe. I was mentally prepared to miss my bed and my desk, my closet and bookshelf. I was even prepared to miss the wonky oven in the kitchen, which is older than me and barely works, but is a part of my house nonetheless.
They say home is where the heart is, and I thought my heart was planted firmly within the confines of my house.
What I never considered was how gravely I would miss the people. In particular, I didn’t realise that more than any closet, more than any oven or bookshelf, I would miss my mom. All my life I have taken her constant presence for granted. I didn’t realise that no one would be around to give me warm hugs like my ma anymore.
They say home is where the heart is, and my heart is wherever mom is.
I’m homesick for my mom.
If I could, I’d call her five times a day and tell her every little update in my life. As it goes, I have to make do with one call daily, which always leaves me feeling a bit like a prisoner with limited visitations.
It helps that everyone around me is just as desperate to talk to their mom. My roommate calls her mom five times a day, even if it’s just to discuss mundane life events. Another friend has a nightly family video call, and I can’t decide if I’m jealous or not, because that amount of dedication would kill me.
I’m homesick for my mom. But the thing is, I think she’s homesick for me too.
When mom came to drop me off at university, she set up my entire dorm for me. Immediately after that, she clicked a billion pictures and sent them on the family group chat.
My aunt replied, “My sister is an empty nester now! How fast the children have grown up!”
I think about this statement obsessively. My brother lives halfway across the world, I am here, and she is there. I begin to wonder what walking into a silent, empty house might feel like after eighteen years of being constantly surrounded by people and noise. I force myself to switch off my depressive thoughts.
I hope the cats keep her company.
I’m homesick, but I think my mom is as well.
At 6 pm I instinctively turn my phone’s ringer on. I know she’ll be getting home from work soon, and there will be an incoming call any time now. Neither my mom nor I particularly enjoy long phone conversations, but now they are a staple in our respective routines.
She asks me about my day, much like she used to when I was still a school going kid. Back then I used to shut down her questions immediately—I considered myself too cool and grown-up for my mother’s repetitive probing. As it turns out, being grown-up isn’t that great, so now when my mom asks me about my day, I tell her every minute detail.
And my mom, who is otherwise averse to long and sappy phone calls, listens to every word I say. I ask about her day but she only wants to hear me talk. I give her as many details as I can, if only to listen to her reactions.
I drag on the conversation, but she lingers too.
I’m homesick, and so is my mom.
She tries to convince me to come home every weekend, and every time I tell her I can’t, I’m forced to listen to the disappointment in her voice.
I am going home for the weeklong mid-semester break. I know when I come back to university, I will be chubbier and more well-fed than I have been in weeks. I know when I come back to university, I will be homesick for my mom again.
I also know when I leave, a part of her heart will travel back to university with me.
I’m homesick, and I know my mom is too.