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I came home after a small good-bye soiree with my co-workers at a wine bar next to the office. My mom came a few hours ahead of me to help out with the packing. I walked in, and the first thing she noticed is that I had a drink. Only a glass of wine, I uttered, barely. Then I turned around and broke down in tears. After a moment or two, she said, "it is your choice," in a matter-of-fact tone and resumed packing.

She had also come by two days before. Again, she came before I got home. I realized short time later that she had seen a keepsake of mine. She came across it not through snooping (that is just not what she does) but because of my carelessness. And being a brilliantly smart woman that she is, I instinctively knew that she figured out from the little that she saw what has been ailing me lately. She said nothing about what she saw. Absolutely nothing.

Will I ever achieve the strength and wisdom that she has? I may imitate, but such magnanimous integrity, I fear, is beyond my reach. But I do feel blessed that a woman of such character is my mother, that I am undeniably her flesh and blood, no matter how lacking I am.
The kitchen cabinets are empty. So are all three storage closets. Boxes after boxes are packed, stacked, and waiting in a zen-like posture within the surrounding chaos for the movers to show up Saturday morning. Only I am restless within the confines of a home that I am soon to abandon.