The Whisper of Memories

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I looked at the plane ticket that peeked out from my coat pocket and realized that I would be back on the ground and on my way home soon.

Home. What did that even mean?

Was home the minimalistic apartment that I owned in the center of Manhattan? Was it the dorm room that I had shared with my college girlfriends four years ago? Home never had a meaning; it was merely a place where I laid my head, entertained and had the occasional date.

The house that I grew up in was closer to any definition I have of home than anything I had ever experienced.

Visions of Mom standing by the kitchen sink washing dishes, gazing out the window into the distance, with the faint smile of memories lingering on her lips, crossed my mind. The afternoon sun always seemed to catch Mom's face at that exact angle casting an illuminating glow that made me think of angels.

God, why was I so stubborn? Why did I wait so long to go back home? Why did I take for granted that Mom would always be there? Why did I not call every Sunday as I had promised? Dad died when I was eleven, and Mom had raised me. Two jobs and a lot of sacrifices, and now the only person that ever really put up with all my bullshit was gone. Now I'm alone. Utterly alone.