minalisms

It may not seem like much to you, but the 16th of each month is a momentous day.

It is the one day that I am sure to hear from my mom, who sends me a sweet, celebratory note commemorating the birth of her daughter — Minal — and the arrival of a son — Ben.

See. Momentous.

In mid-September, I will finally fly out to California to visit my family, friends and the place I grew up. I haven’t done so since getting married last November.

Yet I still find myself describing San Jose as “home,” this after two moves, about 2,000 miles and nearly seven years of living anywhere but there.

So it got me thinking: I wonder when the shift occurs — when people stop referring to their past as their present.

How do we forgive someone who hurts us? And when? How could we get past pain that has been snowballing for weeks, months, years … even decades? And how should we cope when it’s too late to tell the other that we want to bury the hatchet with him?

I received news earlier today that my uncle — my mom’s brother — died this afternoon.

I hadn’t spoken to him for a year or so. We were never that close, and that was mainly due to circumstance: He was in India throughout the time I was growing up. 

But my mom also felt as though she lacked a closeness to her own brother. And it bothered her. It bothered her because people and circumstances seemingly wedged themselves between the two siblings years and years ago. As a result, personalities evolved, conflicts arose and feelings were deeply hurt. So the once-cherished relationship between a brother and sister eroded — and neither party was ever ready to make amends. Now he’s gone, and there are so many words between he and my mom that are left unspoken.

So today, and for days to come, my mom has to deal with a broken heart rooted in grief as well as regret. And I have a feeling that the regret will be the hardest to overcome.

I’m flying out to San Jose early Saturday morning. For the past week, maybe two, I’ve been counting down to my departure. 

California, I’ve missed you.

My dad and I were chatting online earlier today and he said that he and my mom were finishing household chores because they were “preparing for a celebrity who was coming to town.” 

My parents are so cute,” I thought, embarrassed a little that they were working hard to welcome their own daughter to a neat house; as if their house was ever messy in the first place.

I haven’t visited my family since Thanksgiving. I think it’s the longest interval between visits, despite my too-hopeful promise upon moving to St. Louis that I’d visit my hometown every three to four months. But to make up for the nearly seven-month absence, this stay will be the longest ever since moving out of the house: eight days. Eight days! 

So I’m elated. I love homecomings.