It’s not that I’m not happy to get back to my own home, my own things, my own bed. It’s not that I want to pack my bags again. It’s not that I think things would necessarily be better if we moved closer.
But the missing after the visits. It hurts.
After the intensity of sharing every waking moment of every day, of needing to confer with five, ten or even twenty other people before lunch can be had, of grumbling together over coffee at breakfast and watching B-movies while putting up a united front against the mosquitoes at night. After 5 weeks of always-accompanied, the suddenly-alone again is novel for about a day. Then the missing hits, becomes all-consuming.
But the missing after the visits. It hurts.
After the intensity of sharing every waking moment of every day, of needing to confer with five, ten or even twenty other people before lunch can be had, of grumbling together over coffee at breakfast and watching B-movies while putting up a united front against the mosquitoes at night. After 5 weeks of always-accompanied, the suddenly-alone again is novel for about a day. Then the missing hits, becomes all-consuming.
For a few days, maybe a week or two if it’s really bad, life consists of nothing else. Normal rhythms are still out of reach. The toddler is grumpy and disoriented, the husband rather quiet. Mum eyeballs the laundry, knowing it needs just as much attention as dinner and the dirty floors and the sofa full of post-travel debris. The mind knows work clients won’t wait forever and it would be better to “just get on with it”, here. But the heart is really elsewhere.
It tries to deflect the missing onto the small things, the things that serve as reminders of what’s gone. The Brazilian flip-flop mug, the English tea and biscuits. Make yet more rice and beans, as though we haven’t just spent two weeks eating… rice and beans.
It tries to deflect the missing onto the small things, the things that serve as reminders of what’s gone. The Brazilian flip-flop mug, the English tea and biscuits. Make yet more rice and beans, as though we haven’t just spent two weeks eating… rice and beans.
Skype calls every day instead of every week, seeing the missing in their eyes too. Not being able to explain to the Bean that they’re not “back” just because they’re on the screen. It hurts.
But get on with it we must, we will. Our lives here are shouting louder for attention than even the toddler can, and anyway, more visits are already in the pipeline. We learn to live with the missing, we accept it as an ordinary part of a life lived abroad. It’s the price we pay.
But get on with it we must, we will. Our lives here are shouting louder for attention than even the toddler can, and anyway, more visits are already in the pipeline. We learn to live with the missing, we accept it as an ordinary part of a life lived abroad. It’s the price we pay.
