Leaving home

On my first day of nursery school I clung to mama and wouldn't let go. What if she doesn't fetch me, I thought. I didn't want to be left in my new school all alone! When dismissal time finally came and my mom wouldn't be in my first line of sight at the gate, I would collapse and cry myself to relief, as if wailing would magically summon her. Of course I was five years old at the time.

This afternoon I clung to mama again and wouldn't let go. And before that to my papa. And before that to my nephew. And before that, my sisters. And before that, my boyfriend. I clung to them tightly, as if doing so would make leaving easier. Of course it only made leaving all the more painful.

Today was different. Now a man of 26, I was not afraid for myself: I was afraid for them. Who's going to stop papa from eating that last morsel of chicharon? Who's going to listen to my mama when she needs to de-stress? I feel like my sisters would be losing their older brother, their protection and anytime go-to guy. Javi would be losing his doting uncle. As for Karlo, as I've said one time too many, who's going to take care of the little things when I'll be halfway across the world?

Throughout my final weeks at home, I avoided administering any final instructions (huling habilin). Doing so would only heighten the farewell-ness of the occasion. And ever the post-modern stoic, I had programmed myself to remain sober during the airport send-off. Crying was for the OFW movie, I convinced myself. Yet in the throes of several last embraces, my defenses fell: I was sobbing outside the airport like a girl. On impulse I whispered my final requests: to my eldest sister, take care of Javi; to my middle sister, take care of Karlo; to my mom, take care of Papa and Karlo; and to Karlo, take care of my family. I think I was confusing my leaving with death!

I was lucky the ground crew didn't charge fees for my excess baggage: responsibility. I felt that I had to take care of these people, and that if anything were to happen while I was away, I'd be the one to blame. To stave off my guilt, I wanted to make sure--ever the obsessive-compulsive anal queen--that I'd be leaving each of them in capable hands.

But now, as I muffle sobs 30,000 feet in the air, I realize: maybe I was confusing responsibility with conceit. Like the world couldn't turn without me. Like I was the glue keeping my family together. Like Karlo couldn't manage without my domestic services. Perhaps I also have to accept that they could all manage without me.

Perhaps I should also leave my conceit at home, that I could fill out the void it leaves with more faith in the people I love. More trust. And in the wellspring of faith and trust that my letting go would open, maybe I could also fetch a bucket for myself.