...and this time, I am the one who's left behind. A year ago this month I left him to live his life across the ocean and moved to the US. In the months before the move, the images seemed to pour out of me in a burst of activity. Tears transformed into images. A way of holding on even when I knew I won't. I thought I understood the meaning of leaving behind.
Now, after having him with me for four weeks, he's gone back. Starting a new chapter in his life, becoming a student. I'm left in an apartment that has more space and less joy. No more suitcases filling the bedroom, no more morning kiss from my big baby son. I am left with a Polaroid photo of him and the thank you card that brought me to tears when I read it. This time, I am the one who's left behind.