I am staring at an empty inbox on my computer screen, thinking that if I stare long enough a message will appear before my eyes. But no, all is quiet in cyberspace.
Silly me, of course my son can't send e-mails just now. His flight has just taken off from Frankfurt to Mumbai. The landing gear has just been tucked into the aircraft's belly, babies are starting to howl from ear pressure, and the flight purser is going on about flying time, cruising altitudes and keeping seatbelts fastened. Cellphones and laptops must be switched off.
And I must switch off my yearning to have my son still safely tucked into this house.
Every now and again my three children - ages 27, 26 and 24 - trick me into thinking they are actually living at home again. The university semester comes to an end, their apartment leases terminate, and, before they disperse to different cities, countries and continents, they land on the parental doorstep along with all their possessions.
We have had a revolving door for many years. Our daughters did part of their university semesters in Seville and Nice, respectively. Our son worked for NGOs in Tanzania, Vietnam and Ghana as part of his international development studies. One daughter is currently working for Habitat for Humanity in Argentina. Another lives in Montreal and comes home for frequent visits.
Our house somehow adjusts to the presence of extra armchairs, sofas and mattresses, and boxes upon boxes of books and clothing, all smelling of a student's lifestyle. The laundry piles are staggering. My kitchen is restocked with an assortment of teas, pasta, greasy little spice bottles and cooking oil of questionable vintage.
There is more of everything: conversation, footsteps, meals, more sports on television and more clothing draped on the back of a kitchen chair. The house is filled and so am I. But for a brief time only. They will go away again to live their lives.
The flight from Frankfurt to Mumbai is well underway now. I cross time zones and calculate the arrival time while sitting in the silent emptiness of my boy's room. It will remain empty for many months as he travels through India and Nepal. A crumpled sweater lies on the floor. It didn't make the cut into his backpack. I give it a motherly sniff and fold it away neatly.
A box of books needs to be organized onto shelves.
Deep under the pile of books are a few CDs, fallen out of their cases, some used candles, and three half empty containers of goldfish food. Freddie the Sixth was our son's roommate for the better part of the academic year until he passed away for mysterious reasons. (Goldfish always pass away for mysterious reasons.) There is a little drop on my cheek, and things are looking blurred. But the tear is not for the deceased goldfish, rest its slimy little soul.
Did airport security allow his bottle of contact lens solution in his carry-on baggage? Will the outside strap of his backpack get caught in the baggage conveyer? Will he be sure to stay hydrated in India's 45ºC humid heat? And will he drink water that's clean? Or will he get some dreadful gastro-illness? And end up in an overcrowded germ-riddled hospital? And get some nasty infection? What about political unrest? Terrorist attacks? Or kidnappings?
And the trek in Nepal - will he handle the altitude? Mind you, he has pills this time. When he climbed to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania a few years ago he never disclosed how much he suffered from altitude sickness. There is always a certain information blackout so the parents won't get too frantic.
Scratch any parent and chances are, beneath the surface, you'll find a fear of letting go. There is no retirement plan for parents. But who are we to hold our fledglings back from their optimism? We must all follow nature's course and, as our children grow, so must we. I guess that is why prayers were invented - those metaphysical care packages that float in the air as we send them off, waving and blowing kisses.
I fuss and tidy the room, turning it once again into a boy-museum, with camp photos, trophies and diplomas arranged just so. I am swirling in reminiscences. Each of my children's bedrooms are little museums, with bits of their lives still in evidence on the shelves and on the wall.
A ding alerts me to an incoming e-mail the next day. "Greetings from Bombay," it says. "Arrived some time this morning, or is it yesterday ? A long trip but smooth sailing. Loud, crowded, sweltering and stinky - the city is everything I expected it would be. I'm staying in an area full of old colonial buildings, cricket pitches and more people, motorbikes and cars than you would think possible in a small area. This evening will walk to Colaba and the Taj Mahal Hotel for a drink, then off to Leopold's café for some food and beer. Should be a hoot! Will stay in Mumbai for a few days to tour the city, markets and catch a Bollywood flick or two. Then off to Goa for beachy, hippyish fun. That's my quick update. Hope all's well a world away in Ottawa."
A world away, but still connected.
Susan Sweeney Hermon lives in Ottawa.