I’ve been here for three weeks already, two of which I’ve been working. So far, it’s been fun and enjoyable here. But there will always be moments that you start missing home. My mother called me the other day thanking me for the flowers I sent, asking me if I’m good, if I have everything I need. And thoughts just came racing into my head.
I miss waking in the morning to the tune of my mother telling everyone in the house to eat breakfast. I miss our long talks about the state of the family, about the need to always be there for each other because at the end of the day all you can really call your own is your family. I miss the way my father animately tells stories about his life’s travails. I miss the conversations I usually have with my younger brother about world domination and our other plans in life. I miss my older brother’s excitement talking about his latest finds in Banawe. I miss being able to eat out or go to the movies with my girlfriend. I miss traveling from north to south just so I can see her or take her home. I miss being able to go out drinking with my barkada to our heart’s content. I miss being able to tell them my stories. I miss them all dearly.
People may not actually notice that I miss home terribly because I have this facade of a laughing, smiling boy, being as happy as he can be. And that’s what I’m really doing — trying to be as happy as possible. I don’t know, but I just don’t like sulking and worrying about things you have no control over. I think it really drains the life out of a person. At this point in my life, I need to have all the energy to live and work in a foreign land.
That first month’s the hardest. Even harder that you were close to your family.