You know that old line, “When was the last time that you did something for the first time?” – well, for me, it was last week. I spent a night alone in my parents’ house for the first time in 54 years, without them being there.
We had to rush Dad to the ER because he suddenly developed a 104 fever. After getting him admitted and settling Mum into the hospital room where he was shifted, my sister and I wound our way back to my parents’ home. She lives nearby, and once she had headed off, I climbed the stairs to my room and sat down for dinner. It was late, so a flask of hot soup and a casserole of roast chicken and veggies had been kept for me. My plate was full and my cup was overflowing, but the home was empty.
Growing up, I did not spend much time with my parents. I stayed with my grandparents while schooling in Chennai, then shifted to a Boarding School in Ooty, and back to Chennai for College. So the feeling of coming home for the holidays was always about basking in the comfort of a cocoon that home provided. A feeling of being held, of safety, and a break from the routine, all wrapped up in the feeling of not having a care in the world. This was the feeling of home being home.
Home is a place where I could put down my burdens, let go of all my worries, and luxuriate in this feeling that enveloped me. It was a place that I could revert to being a little boy again. As I got home, on past occasions, my responsibilities fell away much like a tree shedding its leaves in autumn. I would always leave recharged and ready to take on the world, ready for the next season of growth.
This time was different. I felt the weight of that responsibility remain on my shoulders. But something shifted; I was not in any way burdened by this weight, it was not a heavy feeling. Instead, I felt solid, like the root system of a tree that had taken a firm grip, delved deep down into the earth, and made me feel strong.
In the few days Mum and Dad were away, I interacted with guests and felt their presence through the eyes of so many people who enjoyed our home. The attention to detail (like a small pair of scissors to cut the stubborn powder milk packet without making a mess) that was appreciated, the homemade jams (especially the guava jelly and marmalade) that brought a smile to faces, and the effort to make the experience special for each guest shine through in their absence.
It is difficult to describe, a bit like a moment in a coaching conversation when something shifts and an insight breaks through the cloud of doubt and fear. It feels like a kaleidoscope turning, where hundreds of tiny movements make a new pattern emerge. That lonely dinner left me less alone, more one with myself, and clearer about my role as an anchor in my family. When I am around others (my parents included) I now want them to feel what I felt all those years. Safe, secure, held, and loved.
This space they have created for me, this place called home, is something I will carry with me. It will be home wherever my wife, my son, and I are, along with little Cookie. Sometimes together, many times apart, I now realise home is a feeling that I carry within me. This is the gift that my grandparents and parents have given me, and I will share it with others in my life.
It’s a bit like having a good reputation – easy to bask in its warm glow and get so used to the feeling. Until one day something happens, and it suddenly does not envelop me, like an invisible force field. That moment is when the true value of reputation is understood.
Not having my parents at home was a sudden reminder of how their presence envelops and protects me. May all of us find ways to be alone, without being lonely.
The views and opinions published here belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the publisher.
