An age-old tale.
I lay bare my guilt of missing a relationship with my parents as they aged.
Aging is a bummer and utterly unfair. I have been burdened with the woes of aging since the moment I understood how old my parents really were.
My parents married “late” and thus rushed to get through raising a child before they were caught. Our ages chased us through the better part of our relationship and through my childhood to early twenties; not one of us understood how to be kind towards our vulnerability. Instead, we chose to be closed-off and bitter, sending love as a subliminal message.
In hindsight, fearing running out of time we missed years of our lives living under the same roof and leading lonely lives. As though the second we stopped worrying hell would break lose. We never learned to appreciate each others company nor how to ease-up and laugh a little at the many conundrums of managing a semi-sane life. But I don’t blame us, at least not any more.
They weren’t the best of pairs, mismatched by limited supply and as a consequence of dated cultural beliefs and standards. Arranged-come-childhood-acquaintances, or in simpler terms, they’re distantly related and come from neighbouring villages. Nevertheless, a commitment was indeed a commitment; they stuck it out and for that I congratulate them. Undeniably, they were in fact brave and strong, a rather pathetic excuse of a word.
My parents and I, we are Tamil, from an island torn by violence against our kind by the state and others, eventually conquered by our own kind with weapons, fear and dreams of a place to call ours. Riddled with the worries of supporting family, without education and without a plan, with a ticket, a bag and some friends and family who came before, they set foot on the white mans land, many thousands of miles away. This is a well-spoken tale of many who migrated from Sri Lanka in search of survival, and with perhaps the hope of a life in the mid-nineties to Europe and beyond.
Granted, this is more-so the tale of my parents as a married couple than as individuals. My dad came to Europe much earlier and his relationship with Sri Lanka a lesser-known one, I will save for another day. Yet, I am convinced their struggles spanned decades prior and post their unification.
There was no choice in having to be strong, taking on more than they could manage at any given time, only longing for a future less demanding.
Brave because when darkness fell they walked ahead and held out a hand for others to join too, along this damp and narrow path lined with boogie monsters and ditches. Such was the life of anyone who wanted to start afresh on this land.
Brave for not giving up on each other, when there were many moments when they were certainly better-off apart.
Brave for building a life from scratch and holding faith it would last, because it did.
Over the last few years, through the pandemic, my parents both retired, I introduced my partner, married and have relieved them of their remaining responsibilities. These were intentional decisions, because it is about time they are finally done.
Done working tediously long and exhausting shifts of physical labour, returning home to rest a little, waking to attend to the needs of the family. Done being in an endless struggle to provide, to keep a roof over our heads, to put food on the table, and to save some for a rainy day. Done undermining desires and wants for the betterment of the collective.
“What more is left? What more will life bring?” I hear them wander.
Time is running out.
Life has taken its toll, mentally and physically. As they slowed down, everything has slowed down. Their movement, their conversations, their dreams and desires washed away too. The only thing moving faster is time.
But there is still time. I know there is. Life must have something more to offer, after all it has taken.
I am selfish in wanting more, another chance if you please, when I have had all my life and all the time in the world already. But there simply isn’t time, there it is again, to indulge in self-pity or regret. The fact is I have not known them for long enough, I simply have not had enough time.
The remaining pages.
Their story is mine and this was always a collaboration, even if it never felt like we were ever on the same page. We have written a story with a lot of heart, pain and mostly integrity. There are more pages to fill before the end of this book. Perhaps, after taking a deep breath, and taking as many more as I will need along the way, I could open my wishes to them, to ask if we could write this part together.
This is not inspired by a sudden enlightenment nor do I envision an unidentifiably transformed relationship merely from a conversation or change of attitude. No, I would have far too much to lose to be so naïve. This is a call for recognising and acknowledging what many of us, reaching or in our thirties, watching our parents pass through their sixties and enter their seventies, are going through. I am not fortunate enough to have siblings to share this load. Nothing quite comes close to having blood kindred, I assume. However, there are relationships we can forge through shared experiences. I know I am not alone.
It’s not over until it is.
Alas I am back to writing, for good one can hope. I have been writing for months without publishing, distracted by life and re-designing life, so I am really glad to finally be sharing again. Writers, who often work alone, aren’t given enough credit for the work they do. From conceiving a thought, to connecting the trail, and catering to their audience. I feel this is an even more challenging task when you haven’t been engaging with your audience for a while, as I have not.
If you are interested in keeping up with Return By Dusk, please consider subscribing to the email newsletters where you will be emailed the blog posts as and when I post. I will also be discussing many of these topics on Instagram via my personal and RBD pages, so follow us over there too.
I am sure I am not alone in wanting to have more time with my parents. For my sanity and for the sake of others who may be feeling similar, if you have an inkling, how do you go about facing the reality of aging parents? I will be writing a follow-up with your thoughts and feedback, and more of my musings, so please do share them and let’s start to feel a little less alone in this. Aging is lonely for those who go through it and for those who watch them go through it, but it doesn’t have to be this way.