With every small piece of the past scattered around, memories are buried within. My memories, like these, are buried in the moment I went on a trip with my parents—a trip that went entirely wrong. Yet, in pain and disappointment, we often find true joy and lasting impressions. This was one of those bittersweet moments that would forever linger in my mind. As I sit here remembering, the moments are becoming clearer, more vivid than the waters of the high seas. I was in the early years of my youth, just 9 years old. Life was simple then, my concerns were few, and I didn’t worry about the trivial things that now consume so much of our thoughts. I was truly happy, and perhaps that’s why I can recall those moments so vividly, even after more than 15 years have passed.
Excitement had filled my heart the night before, and I woke up the next morning even more thrilled. The reason for my joy was the news my father shared with us during dinner the previous night. We were a family of five—my father, mother, two older sisters, and me. Dinnertime was always lively, the only time we were all together. The aroma of steaming rice filled the air, and the table looked like a carefully tended garden. Dishes were placed in the center, and plates were arranged in a circle around them. My mother always took such care with these little things, and I adored her for it. My father had just returned from a long overseas trip—he had been away for almost five months—so this was our first dinner together in a long time. My sisters, 11 and 16 at the time, were as loud and boisterous as ever, pushing each other around the table like they always did, and still do. Then my father broke the news: he wouldn’t have to travel anymore, and he would be staying home with us. I was overjoyed—I loved spending time with my father, and I couldn’t wait to wake up the next day.
But the morning didn’t turn out as I expected. I saw packed bags by the door and dragged myself down the stairs, half-awake, trying to make sense of what was happening. My father was talking to my mother, and she looked upset. I overheard fragments of the conversation—words like “Why?” and “This is impossible!” and “It’s not fair...” in my mother’s voice. When they noticed me, they stopped talking and greeted me with warm smiles. My father explained that he had to leave again for something very important, but this time, he would be taking me with him. In an instant, I was wide awake. I had finally won something over my sisters—they were always the ones to get such opportunities, but this time it was my turn. That morning, I tasted victory, and I liked it.
My bags were already packed, and my mother helped me wash up and dress for the day. The usual morning routines went by, but this time, I was excited. I waved goodbye to my mother, who stood on the porch as we drove away in my father’s car. I could see her waving vigorously, and I thought she was happy for me. As we drove, our house—once the biggest in the neighborhood—seemed to shrink and fade behind other buildings. New sights emerged: the road stretched out like an endless thread, the sound of rivers gushing beneath us, and the smells of different houses we passed by. Soon, I smelled food, and I guessed it was lunchtime. We stopped at a restaurant along the way and had Indian food. The vibrant colors on the plate and the lively chatter around us fascinated me, especially the sight of a large man battling several plates of rice and curry—eventually, the man won. Afterward, I fell asleep in the car.
When I woke up, it was evening. I saw a city in the distance, lights growing brighter as night approached, and people hurrying home. Cars buzzed by, their headlights flickering in the dark. Memories blur after that, but I recall sleeping soundly beside my father. The next day, we followed the same routine, getting back into the car. We arrived at an airport, and I was awestruck by the sight of enormous airplanes. My first plane ride was terrifying! I felt like some invisible force was pressing down on me, and I was on the verge of tears, but my father held me close. I could smell the faint scent of stale cigarettes and his musky cologne, and I felt comforted. Sometimes, I wish I were a bird, looking down at how small and insignificant everything appears from the sky.
We had arrived in a new land, and I was thrilled. Hand in hand with my father, we ventured into this unfamiliar place. I saw people who looked different—blonde-haired strangers rushing past us. The sights were so new to me that I barely noticed when we reached a large building. Surrounded by towering structures, I felt small. The following weeks were filled with excitement as I explored these massive buildings and marveled at everything around me. As a 9-year-old boy, new places felt like wonders, and I was happy beyond words. Little did I know that this was the place we would call home for the next 20 years.
Looking back now, I realize the things I didn’t understand during that trip with my father. I hadn’t noticed the fight that broke out after dinner, my mind too focused on spending time with him. I didn’t see that my sisters were gone the next morning. I didn’t see the tears in my mother’s eyes as we drove away. I missed the sadness on my father’s face during lunch. I failed to feel the tears that fell on me as my father hugged me on the plane. And I didn’t understand that we had left my mother and siblings behind as we embarked on this journey. I was too young, too carefree, and too naïve to see that my parents were separating.
Nothing was the same after that day, but I still remember it vividly. With each passing year, I see a new side to that moment, and new realizations emerge. For now, it remains a bittersweet memory—one of the last moments I spent with my father, and the last time I saw my mother. As the band Poison once sang, "Every rose has its thorn"—and they were right.
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