Why I hate today.

Then love, love will tear us apart, again…
Joy Division, “Love will tear us apart”.



Today is not a nice day. And even a haircut has not cheered me up. I took my mother or ‘baba’, back to the airport today.

My friends laugh and tell me I am depressed because I will miss all the help around the house. They have no clue. They are lucky, because majority of them have not experienced a separation for months at a time.

I hate today because of tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning, when we wake up, my daughter is not going to run upstairs, in the attic conversion baba occupies when she visits, to get her portion of cuddles and laughter. She will probably forget she said goodbye the night before, as children do, and shout to baba to hurry up, only to get reminded that she is no longer upstairs, but quite far away now.

When we go downstairs to have some breakfast, nobody is going to have a little chat with me, while putting the kettle on.

I put going upstairs off, for as long as I can.

I walk in, and pick up something she might have accidentally forgotten, like an old magazine or a towel. The bed is stripped off the bedding that baba always remembers to wash and hang the day she leaves. I tidy everything away, and just linger at the window, looking out and thinking about stuff. Windows in that room have the best view, being that high up, and I enjoy looking down at all those pretty houses, the odd roof angles and chimneys, half hidden by mature trees. And I have to remind myself, as tears swell up in my eyes, that I am being unforgivably silly. That she has only gone back home until she can visit again. Most importantly, that she is not gone forever.

There is this old Russian pop song, that actually has quite meaningful words in it. It claims that every parting is like a little death.

And that’s what I hate about days like today. They make me think, however hard I try to bury those thoughts deep inside my mind, that one day it will indeed, be forever. And this is how it will feel. Just an empty room.

Yes, just like this, only a million, billion times worse, because then you know that they really aren't coming back. And you feel lost. Only some short time ago you sat right there, next to them, could touch them, could talk to them, could ask them about something mundane you have forgotten, like an old recipe. And then, all of a sudden, they are gone, and the room is empty, and you can never ask them a question again.

And that is why I hate today.

But tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, when I get up, husband will take the dog to the forest, and I will not shout up the attic for baba to hurry up and come downstairs so we could have our usual chat and a coffee.

Instead, I will pick up the phone, so I could make sure she is back safe and sound, in the known comfort of her old flat, surrounded by her own things, with my cousin there to share tasty goodies sent by me from England.

I will hear their cheerful voices, and everything will just click right back to normal. And my usual life will resume. Until next time. Inshallah, as they’d say back home.