The day Mira walked out of my life

By Diani Savitri

I knew she was about to leave us, my son and I. I had been watching her demeanor closely these past few weeks. She used to be a strong woman, this Mira, yet I detected her strength ebbing, both mentally and physically.

I loved her instantly, the first day I met her. She was imperturbable, almost serene in her every move. Her gaze slowly and pleasantly cast upon you, you'd feel it melt in your heart like soft, delicious ice cream in your mouth -- surprisingly cold at first, but as you give it time it would become delightfully warmer, leaving a sweet, pleasant taste on your palate. Yes, that's the right way to describe her effect on you when she's around you. She conveyed peaceful happiness.

She reminded me a lot of Runi, my late wife. Runi was as graceful as a doe -- nevertheless, when the occasion demanded, she could show her agility too. She would almost leap from one corner of the house to the other to swiftly finish her copious household chores, just like a mother doe hopping around in the meadow teaching her offspring to run in the wild. Runi always spoke softly yet firmly, and her nonchalant stare was one of the things I missed most from her.

Other Javanese of aristocratic blood from our generation, as Runi was, could be expected to have that kind of tenderness of speech and acute refinement of conduct. But I was always certain that only a truly good heart and innate astuteness could surface in the form of such grace. Runi had proven my judgment to be right -- my friends who had married girls from Runi's social circle had complained to me after years of marriage; those girls turned out to be unskilled homemakers, irresponsible mothers, snobbish women, and, worst of all, sulking, demanding wives. I could not have been luckier.

I held on to Runi's memory tightly after she passed away; so tightly that if it were my fist, my palm would have bled, the flesh pierced by the nails. The memory pains me, true, but I could not let go as without it my heart would have been empty, vacant. I might as well have been dead.

When Mira came into our lives, mine and my son's, I was relieved, almost exhilarated. She loved us dearly; a love for me so tender and a love for my son so pure and affectionate. Of course, my emphasis was on my son's happiness, as long as he was loved, cared for and looked after, I would be contented.

As the years went by, the relationship between Mira and I had grown stronger. She made a silent partner, which was perfect for me, being old and alone in this world due to the fact that my friends are either as old and weak as I am or dead. Less and less words uttered -- almost none needed as we had a common understanding in almost anything. In my youth, with my loved one Runi, we would have had some light conversation about daily issues to refresh my spirit after working as a low-paid civil servant, and, sometimes, serious discussions about how we were to bring up our only son. Runi would have spoken with her soft voice, "Bapak,"*) she would have started off, "Would you like to hear what happened today ..." and then I would listen and somehow be entertained just by the melodious way she used to coax me with her words. But I am old now. I only need my meals cooked well, my room tidied, my clothes in the drawer folded neatly. I need the tranquility the house of an old man needs. I need the calm, cool air an old man has to be surrounded by. I need some peace only. All these Mira amply provided.

So I loved her even more. Curiously enough, I sensed the opposite with my son.

I remember the day I realized that the love Mira expectantly offered to him was not being returned in equal measure. That morning, I saw how my son carelessly, without looking, snatched a glass of milk from the poor woman's hand. Almost a third of the milk sloshed out, spilling on the wristband of his shirt. My son threw an angry, accusing look at Mira. To my astonishment, she grew really pale. I thought at the time that there could be no love if there was no forgiveness, especially for a very minor matter like milk being spilt over a shirt.

Just recently when there was only the two of us in my room, my son told me that things had changed. I just sat there, silent as usual, listening to how he believed that tradition, old conventions and values between men and women had altered and that he wanted dynamism, change and fresh air. His words were jumbled and he sounded more confused than angry. By the time he had finished talking, I was almost sure that he was suffocating from the air that he breathed in this old house, the cool, calm, unchanging air. I knew then that he hated the house and its petrified ways. Isn't it funny how tranquility can be calming for some people while it can be deadening for some other people?

He is a handsome man, my son. Always had been a bright pupil and now a very promising young executive, he has this air I never had in my youth; haughtiness and superiority. He is now a grown man full of anxiety, eagerness and the need to jump ahead, this son of mine. He is no longer in his early adulthood when he was still insecure of his existence in this world and needed the motherly love that Mira proposed eight years ago.

This morning while I'm sunbathing on the back porch, Mira comes to me. She kneels down to my right, sitting on her haunches. I look at her sorrowfully. I know that today is the day.

"Bapak," she forces a smile onto her lips that does not appear in her eyes.

"Warm enough?" She asks to my hands. I nod, certain that even though she is not looking at me she could somehow feel my nod.

She just rearranges the blanket that had been covering my skinny, age-battered legs before it slipped from my lap to lie crumpled around my ankles.

"I must tell the nurse to let you stay longer outside your room. It's better to be outside, Pak,*) you'll get fresher air," she now says to the sunflowers that she planted several months ago. "We will have her live in, she's good at taking care of you. And patient too. She has agreed to this new arrangement, she'll stay here from tomorrow. But Sunday is her day off," she adds.

I try to move my right hand to touch her hand. She gets mine first, as with the age and illness both of my hands lack speed and direction. Only then she looks up and looks into my eyes.

"I will be going away for sometime, Pak. I'm going to live with my parents again. That way both Sidik and I can think clearly and work things out,"

My hand trembles in hers out of uncontrolled emotion, compounded by the Parkinson's disease from which I suffer. I feel my eyes water and my throat clog up, making it even harder for me to speak than it already is. Her calmness remains, suggesting her determination. Clearly there's nothing I can do to change her mind. I know Mira cares a lot about me but, of course, her love is for my son Sidik, so that when she finally accepted the fact that her love was unreciprocated she could only leave to stop herself from getting hurt more.

Her voice is a little unsteady and her eyes glitter slightly with tears as she strokes my still trembling hand and says, "I'll still be a daughter to you, Pak, I'll come and visit you when it is the right time for me to come." With that she gets up, backing away before her first tear escapes.

I stare as her slightly slouching figure backs away. My son is living here in this house but his mind and soul are somewhere else, while this daughter-in-law of mine has her mind occupied by my being but her body will be somewhere else. Either way, they have abandoned me.

I feel lonelier than ever. ***

*) Bapak or Pak is Indonesian for "sir" or "father".