It resembled a place she once called home. Nostalgic memories flooded her mind on the drive from the airport.
The streets were familiar. She could trace the route home in her sleep. Not much change. Just dilapidation.
Everywhere she looked, the city was painted with struggle, hopelessness. People missioning to and fro for very little. Money was scarce. Needs were many.
Arriving at their destination, the joy of home filled her. How she loved the large garden and warmness of the house. But she was sad too. Sad to see the house standing – no longer in its former glory, but a stagnant replica of what was.
In spite of it all, she was relieved to be home. A place she could call home and be welcomed with open arms.
The heat bore at her. When the rain came, she welcomed the breeze it brought. The hot earth had always been a metaphor of the struggle of her homeland. Scorching, unforgiving, uncomfortable, tiring and in desperate need of a cooling balm.
Mother lightened her spirit. She’d bought all her favourite local foods and made sure she was comfortable. So typically her. Always wanting to make sure others were alright. It felt good to be taken care of.
She was amazed at how quiet she became. Referred to as the ‘loud one’ in the family, she didn’t have much to say. She was an observer. Doing as told. Adhering to cultural norms. Realising she needed to take care of the parents and the home.
Was this what life was going to be? A constant state of wander? She needed to get a game plan in order. And fast.