Eyes Full of Hope

It’s been a while since I last saw her. All the way to my hometown, I think about meeting her. I travel through half the world—past oceans and continents, the fast-food smell of airports; the noisy crowds; the never-ending lines—and arrive at the air of my country, and the old familiar sunshine, which is so different from New York, and the calming sight of my parents, the same old neighborhood, full of memories in every corner and every street. I skip the stairs of my apartment building all the way to the ninth floor, and enter the front door . . .

And what I was afraid would happen happens. I look into her eyes with hope that she’ll remember me, but alas, those eyes are full of sadness now, and worry, and bewilderment. I would like to find a glimpse of her former joy, but nothing’s there. She doesn’t remember me. I expected this, but I am not ready.

“Are you my mother?” she asks, with eyes full of hope. I’m lost. What should I say? What should she hear? “No, I’m not,” I say.

After my answer, her eyes drown in tears. She asks me, again and again, the same question, until I surrender, and in desperation say, “Yes, I am your mother.”

For a few brief seconds, I see a glimpse of that former joy. I hate to lie to her, but I’m ready to do it a hundred and a thousand times, just so I can see a glimpse of that former joy in my grandmother’s eyes. Even if it is for just a few seconds.

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Author portraitMahina Kosimova was born in Isfara, Tajikistan. “My native language is Farsi. I moved to the United States in 2017. I believe that life means family, who you can trust and trusts you. Being a family means to love and be loved no matter what.” Mahina Kosimova studies with teacher Dorian Kula in a CUNY CLIP class at the College of Staten Island.