A woman, that lives next to my mother's house, rang the doorbell, while I was there. She explained her mother died, she had many visitors, and she wondered if I'd mind if they parked on the driveway.
I gave my permission, and asked if she was leaving for a few days. Her remark was "I can't ever go back."
She's Vietnamese; first generation after the refugees made it to the United States. When I asked, "not going back" never crossed my mind. I felt a little foolish, but I think she understood my ignorance.
Looking at her, I asked if she was alright. She turned to me, with the expression I knew too well; the expression that describes the loss, confusion, sadness, and profound unwillingness to release those you know are gone. I'd seen it in the mirror.
She answered: "I have to be."
I could only say: "Yeah, but it still hurts."
She paused for a moment, put her hand on my arm and walked away.
I could only think of my mother, who I was blessed to help through her final years. It was an experience that taught me more about myself than few other experiences in my life. I was blessed and the neighbor never had the opportunity.
There's a lesson to be taught from this short moment in time. It teaches we're all the same and the politics of the world don't bring comfort, unless liberty is the final goal.
In Case You've Wondered
My blog is where my wandering thoughts are interspersed with stuff I made up. So, if while reading you find yourself confused about the context, don't feel alone. I get confused, too.
If you're here for the stories, I started another blog: scratchingforchange.blogspot.com
One other thing: sometimes I write words you refuse to use in front of children, or polite company, unless you have a flat tire, or hit your thumb with a hammer.
I don't use them to offend; I use them to embellish.