Like many parents in this age of diaspora, I do not have all my three sons in our native land. The current era of global migration, accelerated by globalization, technology, and economic disparity, our children—upon age of reason—choose where they live to chase their dreams and plans.
Son #2, a physician, left for the US shortly after his wedding. There, he and his wife birthed a son: the love of my life and my late husband’s. They would come for a vacation every year, or Tony and I would fly out there for a vacation—perfect arrangements for family bonding.
But the pandemic re-arranged, or erased, all schedules.
When we rushed Tony to the hospital, where he was confined for 20 days, son #2 and family also rushed over, and had just enough time to say good-bye.
Recently son #2 and my daughter-in-love (minus my precious grandson who is now enrolled in a university) found a break from their busy schedules and visited us for five short days. The first order of the day was an early morning visit to Tony’s grave.
It’s a bittersweet moment for a mother to see her son navigate his grief at his father's resting place for the first time. But one cannot escape the brutal blows of earthly living.
It was not a visit of obligation, or religious commandment, or ancestor worship, but a personal act of remembering and processing of grief. For a few minutes, we allowed ourselves a silent space for prayer and comfort—while focusing on the new eternal life as a gift of generous grace.
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