The most hurtful fact of immigration.
It literally pains thinking about my mom's departure in a couple days, to leave her at the airport, to come back to a house with an empty guest room.
It all started with the departure.
I left Iran for the first time in the fall of 2000. I packed all the things I really liked and left them in a storage, let my parents drive me to the airport and then left them behind the glass doors to the departure gates. My grandma also came to the airport, sighing every once in a while. She has grown much older now, has suffered a stroke since, and looks more wrinkled.
I have lost many great moments since. Many births, many marriages, some losses.
It is a long time thirteen years. My brothers, then twins and teens, have grown to be young men now. My parents have matured. My sisters have married.
I have missed a lot. And it feels really sad thinking about it. Worse, I am missing more and more everyday.
I don't want my mother to leave. But she doesn't want to miss things. So she is going to go back. I am going to come back to an empty guest room and continue missing, dwelling in the sorrows of the immigrant that I am.