Photo source: Connie Stappers
By Sadiah Bemat, Staff Writer
I arrived home three days ago. My parents picked me up from the train station, and for the first time since school began in September, I looked outside and saw the change. Autumn is my favourite season, but I realized that I had missed the changing of the leaves. As the scene before me passed, it hit that I had easily missed the moments I had looked forward to. The falling leaves reminded me of my childhood and how I would jump into the piles my family spent hours raking. Back then, the piles seemed as big as a mountain. It had been so long since I felt that innocent happiness that is now just a feeling of nostalgia. Today, life just feels stressful as I have to work for the next milestone. First, it was getting into University; then it was getting into the desired program, and now it’s getting the grades, getting into extracurriculars, finding a place to live; and next, I will be working on getting into the next school to qualify for my dream job. It just keeps going, and I feel like I never have any time to stop and just look around, and to take in that I am at the place where I had worked to be for years. The piles of leaves that I once saw as mountains turned to mountains of responsibilities, tasks, and deadlines.
The last time I came home, I had spent days locked inside, head down and stressed, worried about keeping the information in my head just long enough for me to spill them on the test. Only leaving my numbing state to grab more coffee. This time, my grandparents were staying with us, and it was a chance for me to be with them again. Yet, here I found myself alone in the same desk chair, unable to leave until the questions from the review buzzed my ears. I felt tethered to the desk, my body not listening when I willed it to move because I hadn’t studied enough. I told myself that I would be back in two weeks, tests complete, and spend the entirety of my reading week with my grandparents.
I woke up Sunday. Excited.
After breakfast, my mother told me to go sit with my grandparents because they were leaving that very day. The excitement had left. They were here, and I had missed it. Dejection took me over. Every time I see them, they look so much older. I found myself feeling hopeless; is there no way to stop time? As I worked towards my goals, I felt like I was missing the time that I have left with the people I love. The reflection and nostalgia I had in the car pulled me to my room for a chance to relive one of my fondest memories with them. So, I searched for my hairbrush and hair tie.
For years, I sat at my grandmother’s feet while she would braid my hair. Her skilled hands would part my thick hair, reaching for my scalp. The length of her fingers would run down the partings as she would lay the oil meticulously, and then massage it into my scalp. She would smooth the oil down my ends until every layer was coated, falling into a rhythm as she split my hair into three parts evenly, and folded over each other in a pattern—over and over, and once again until it felt like nothing had changed. While everyone else in the house would complain about doing my hair because it was too long and thick, my grandmother never did. Her hands were graceful and swift, and more than anything, she was gentle, and took immense care, unwilling to let my tangled curls cause me pain. Now, I sat at her feet once again, feeling like that child I once was. The same nostalgic feeling of safety and warmth. And almost, just almost, I felt the carefree spirit of my inner child.
It felt like we were back in our old house, in the early morning before the day started. Everyone in the house was getting ready to go to school or work. My mother was making chai on the stove; I could hear my aunts upstairs, still in high school, fighting over a shirt; my father and uncle were clearing the driveway from the snow that had fallen overnight; my grandfather was on the phone with someone back home in India. And my mind was occupied with Fairly OddParents, while my grandmother braided my hair. My biggest worry at that moment was arriving to school early enough to be line leader.
In the evening, we would gather on the floor and eat dinner. Together. As we passed around food each night, we would also pass stories. There were laughs, fights, joys, and tears, as the family expanded when someone got married, and then became smaller when they would eventually leave. The change in my family mirrored the changing season of autumn, when leaves develop their bright hues of orange and red, and eventually fall to grow their new roots. As one member got married, their roots in our family would stop growing, but they would plant new ones when starting a new life. The dynamics of autumn were not different then that of my loving family.
Life was simple. I didn’t know it then, but the functional chaos of our family, jumping into mountains of leaves, and the ritual of braiding my hair in the mornings would be the things I would miss and take the most for granted. I regret missing the beauty and change of autumn after being blinded and consumed by responsibilities. My trip home showed me the connection between the changes of my life throughout the years with my family mirrored with the season. Perhaps autumn is just a season like any other, with its alluring landscape, holidays and traditions, and a specialty drink that combats the weather; or, it is something more deeply enshrined in human development and the changes in nature, and in the connections with the people that we love.
