We take many journeys in our lives. Some are more important than others. Some even change our lives.

The Journey was published in October Hill Magazine in the fall of 2024. (www.octoberhillmagazine.com)

The Journey

My mother was crying, and I didn’t understand why. I was on my way to spend the summer with her side of the family in Hawaii, but she didn’t seem happy for me. 

Back then I was in high school, and my mother took me to our county airport for the first leg of that trip. Our county airport was located among a vast plain of farm fields and was so small that it had only one gate. That gate was an actual gate in a chain-link fence. We said good-by there. 

“Have a good time, but be careful.”

“I will, Mom. Don’t worry.”

I boarded the propeller plane by climbing up the steps and chose a seat where I could see my mother standing at the gate, outside in the bright sunlight. I caught her eye through my window and waved. She waved back. As my plane moved away from the gate, I saw my mother pull a tissue from her purse and wipe her eyes. 

My summer in Hawaii was even more terrific than I had imagined. I lived with one set of cousins in the big city of Honolulu, studied Asian history in summer school, and learned to use the city bus. These were revelations to me because my own town was too small to have a bus system and to offer Asian history in school. I made new friends who introduced me to samurai movies (all the rage in Hawaii then) and Siamese fighting fish. Later I lived with other cousins on their farm where they grew tropical fruit such as star fruit, lai chee, and mountain apple. I learned to surf, ate exotic foods routinely, and fell into speaking with a Hawaiian accent. Those were eye-opening experiences for a boy from a small farming town in the California desert. Not only did they strengthen relationships with my cousins, but they exposed me to new situations, ideas, and attitudes. My understanding of reality expanded and influenced how I looked at the world. I carried that trip with me for the rest of my life.

But lingering with me through that summer was the image of my mother at the airport. She was standing at the gate, holding up her glasses slightly with one hand as she used the tissue in her other to reach under her glasses and wipe first her right eye, then her left. One day shortly after I returned, I sidled to the kitchen door and leaned on the frame. Mom was standing at the sink, her back to me. I heard the sound of the vegetable peeler scraping carrots. I asked her why she had been crying as I was going off for a great summer. Wasn’t she happy for me?  The sound of the peeler stopped as she looked towards the ceiling. Without turning she said, “It was the dust, just the dust,” and the scraping sound resumed. 

Since that day my mother has seen me off on many trips. I have watched her eyes for signs of wetness, but they have always been dry. Even when I went off to that nasty Asian war, she didn’t seem concerned. She had consulted a fortune teller who had assured her of my safe return. The fortune teller was an accurate seer. I returned unscathed and eager to start the rest of my life.

I focused on my future, and my life got busy. I worked my way through graduate school. I got a good job. My girlfriend and I married. She finished law school and got a good job. We bought a house. Our family added two dogs and two kids. We were living our best lives.

Family vacations included an occasional trip to Hawaii, introducing the kids to Mom’s side of the family that I had grown close to those many years ago. They met great aunties and uncles, cousins-once-removed, and second cousins. We ate tropical fruits and exotic foods. The kids learned to surf. Back home life was filled with the kids’ sporting events, musical performances, birthday parties, and a myriad of other activities. By then air travel had become common compared to when I was young, and we even saw the kids off on a trip or two without one of us with them. Our goal as parents was to raise our kids to be confident, responsible, and independent. The independence of one’s child, I learned, occurs over an extended period, and its realization is both happy and sad.

Our kids, like many others, grew up too fast. One summer evening my wife and I found ourselves at the international terminal at the San Francisco airport. Our daughter had qualified to participate in her college’s Study Abroad program at Oxford University. We were seeing her off on that trip. 

It was a time before metal scans and carry-on inspections, so we walked her to her departure gate. Her gate shared its waiting area with other gates. The space was carpeted and cavernous, muting the sounds of bustling travelers, and its air was filtered and purified so no dust or jet fumes intruded. Soaring windows overlooked the taxiway and runway. The whole environment reminded me of a sci-fi movie except no one was wearing clothes that looked like shiny pajamas.  

The space was not crowded, and we easily found a place to settle. Our daughter was glad for the relief from the weight of her carry-ons. We chatted with her about small things while we waited for the announcement to board. At the announcement, we exchanged hugs and gave her the usual parental admonitions.

“Have a good time, but be careful.”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

She shouldered her carry-ons and walked down the jet way in her jeans, her straight, dark hair gently swaying across her shoulders. She stopped and turned to smile and wave before disappearing around the bend in the jet way. 

Throughout our short time at the airport, I was aware of a dull light, sort of an awkward presence or a small disturbance, in my sense of awareness. I couldn’t tell what it was, so I did my best to ignore it. When our daughter disappeared around the bend in the jet way, this mental lump entered the bright light of my awareness and took a form. It showed no details, but its essence was clear to me. It was the realization that this trip would be different in important ways from our daughter’s other trips. 

That lump was an accurate seer. This trip exposed our daughter to new situations and ideas. It allowed her to explore new academic fields under the tutelage of renowned professors. Their questions and prodding assignments influenced how she looked at the world. Consequently, she saw new possibilities for her life. Because of this trip she changed her career plans. And that changed her life. 

That night as I watched our daughter’s plane taxi toward the runway, the scene of my mother at the gate rose before me. At that moment I understood why she had been crying. It had taken my own journey through parenthood and our daughter’s Semester Abroad program, but now I finally understood. When my wife saw the tears welling in my eyes, she placed a reassuring hand on my arm and gently asked if I was feeling okay.

I wiped my eyes and replied, “It’s the dust. … just the dust.”