In 1972 my brother left Ireland for Canada. I was 12 and he was 21. I was just starting to get to know him. He left with nothing more than an address and phone number for a distant cousin and a rucksack on his back. Toronto has been his home now for 42 years.
I can still see my parents, my younger sister and myself standing at the airport, watching until he turned and waved for the last time. My father as always in a suit, my mother stoic in her good coat.
With that last wave we headed for home. No tears were shed and no one spoke. I think I had the grace to wait a day or two before I asked if I could have his room. Yes was the answer, just not yet. I waited a good six months for it.
In the meantime my mother kept the key; she went into it regularly and sobbed. I never offered solace or even asked why. I never dreamed her heart might be broken. Her four eldest children had left the country. One more was to leave, with just me remaining.
Fast-forward 39 years, to April 2011, and I found myself in the same position, having to say goodbye to my two eldest daughters within 10 days. The first left for Australia, the second for New Zealand. Both said it wasn't for ever. Without warning our noisy, loving, busy home became something akin to a mausoleum, with just my husband, our youngest daughter, who was 20, and myself. I was so wrapped up in sadness that I never asked how she was feeling. I could think of nothing but the sorrow I was sure would engulf me for the rest of the time the other girls were away.
Weekends became almost unbearable, with time on our hands to do nothing but watch the clock and wonder what time it was in Sydney, in Queenstown. When could we Skype?
When we did Skype it was often brief. They were busy going out for breakfast, meeting friends, living lives so far removed from ours that the “Skype dates” left us in tears.
Time moved on, bedrooms remained empty, coats and dresses still hung in wardrobes, waiting for their owners to return. Christmases were an ordeal. I found the false gaiety demanding but had to carry it off, if only for my youngest. The last thing she needed was two blubbering parents.
I turned into my mother, lying on their beds, sobbing, when it all got too much. There was a huge hole in my life. They were my first thought in the morning, my last thought at night. My beautiful babies, two of the reasons I got out of bed every day, were thousands of miles away. The recession had not been kind to us, and there was never the option of going to visit them.
Our youngest turned 21 that August. We had a big party, but I’m sure she felt cheated that her sisters weren’t there. She and I became much closer. Without her I would have crumbled. The thought that she might one day follow them was beginning to add to my anxiety. I’m sure she must have felt suffocated.
She was getting ready for finals, I started a business, and suddenly two years had passed and the eldest announced that she was coming home for good. Joy of joys. Her sister followed, but only for a visit. Having been in New Zealand for three years, gainfully employed and with many good friends, she is applying for permanent residency.
Our home has again become a bit of a hub. I know it’s not long before both girls move out. But they will still be in Dublin. It’s as it should be. What keeps me awake at night is the thought that one day I may have grandchildren on the other side of the world, grandchildren who may never know me as anything but a face on a computer screen.
Meanwhile the coats and the dresses still hang in the wardrobe, waiting for their owner to come home, and I still find myself watching the clock and wondering what time it is in Queenstown.
