Family Gathering
I don’t write to express. I don’t write to impress. I don’t write to analyze. I write to make sense of the chaos in my head. I write in an attempt to get rid of my mental war, especially when it starts to prevent me from performing my daily routine. I write when it becomes a burden for me to get out of bed in the morning. I write when following a schedule becomes undisputedly impossible. I write when other people’s voices become incomprehensive mumble. I write when everyone else’s pace becomes rocket speed in comparison to mine. I write when my mind takes over my being but doesn’t know what to do with it.
I sat tonight with my parents in the living room and watched them watch TV. They grew old and far, like I never thought they would. They sat on the same couch but the distance between them could easily fit three more people. Dad was breathing heavily, first with his eyes open, then with his eyes closed. But when it was that he fell asleep, I really don’t know, and neither does he. I know that he liked the movie, and that he was excited about it but he can’t fight sleep anymore. He grew out of that. He grew out of fighting.
Mom was looking at the screen with eyes of a child seeing fireworks for the first time. I remembered a few years back when I used to beg her to try, just try, to watch a movie with me. She would sit next to me, turn on the TV, watch the initial scenes and then as soon as all the characters are introduced, she’d laugh and leave. She has many things to do she used to say, accounting, phone calls with friends, next day’s lunch… TV is a waste of time and time is precious. Although her behavior annoyed me a bit but I became used to her, in fact, I admired her for her restlessness. No one who has ever met her could disregard the fire of life blazing inside of her. She wasn’t living, she was alive. She’s been driving for 28 years and yet every time she sits behind the wheels she drives with the enthusiasm of an 18-year-old boy who was recently given his driving license. She turns on the radio the minute she turns on her car because for her it’s not about where you’re going, it’s about what songs you listen to on the way. She’d put music while cooking, music while packing up her summer clothes at the beginning of winter, music while arranging the pharmacy’s stock, music throughout the day because to her, life is a festival; she may not know how to dance but she sure knows how to enjoy its rhythm. Now she gazes at the TV completely indulged in the movie, unresponsive to my deliberate attempts to disrupt her attention by trying to open up a conversation with her. She finally found time to waste. The pharmacy still needs accounting reviews, her friends still call her at night, and lunch still has to be prepared for next day. But at some point along the way, her roaring soul grew deaf to the festival’s band. No, it’s not an obligation for growing up, it’s a choice. People call it wisdom, I call it surrender. People call it stability, I call it imprisonment. Mom made me believe that the older one gets, the more reasons he has to celebrate. I’ve seen her walk out of her party for the past three years. I’ve seen her walk out on herself.
I sat tonight with my parents in the living room and watched them watch TV. They grew old and far, like I never thought they would. They sat on the same couch but the distance between them could easily fit three more people. Dad was breathing heavily, first with his eyes open, then with his eyes closed. But when it was that he fell asleep, I really don’t know, and neither does he. I know that he liked the movie, and that he was excited about it but he can’t fight sleep anymore. He grew out of that. He grew out of fighting.
Mom was looking at the screen with eyes of a child seeing fireworks for the first time. I remembered a few years back when I used to beg her to try, just try, to watch a movie with me. She would sit next to me, turn on the TV, watch the initial scenes and then as soon as all the characters are introduced, she’d laugh and leave. She has many things to do she used to say, accounting, phone calls with friends, next day’s lunch… TV is a waste of time and time is precious. Although her behavior annoyed me a bit but I became used to her, in fact, I admired her for her restlessness. No one who has ever met her could disregard the fire of life blazing inside of her. She wasn’t living, she was alive. She’s been driving for 28 years and yet every time she sits behind the wheels she drives with the enthusiasm of an 18-year-old boy who was recently given his driving license. She turns on the radio the minute she turns on her car because for her it’s not about where you’re going, it’s about what songs you listen to on the way. She’d put music while cooking, music while packing up her summer clothes at the beginning of winter, music while arranging the pharmacy’s stock, music throughout the day because to her, life is a festival; she may not know how to dance but she sure knows how to enjoy its rhythm. Now she gazes at the TV completely indulged in the movie, unresponsive to my deliberate attempts to disrupt her attention by trying to open up a conversation with her. She finally found time to waste. The pharmacy still needs accounting reviews, her friends still call her at night, and lunch still has to be prepared for next day. But at some point along the way, her roaring soul grew deaf to the festival’s band. No, it’s not an obligation for growing up, it’s a choice. People call it wisdom, I call it surrender. People call it stability, I call it imprisonment. Mom made me believe that the older one gets, the more reasons he has to celebrate. I’ve seen her walk out of her party for the past three years. I’ve seen her walk out on herself.
posted by boubeyeh at 7:08 PM
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