Lingering Stare of my Mother
By Bhuwan Thapaliya

The only thing I remember is her stare -
that somber, lingering gaze of my mother,
as I folded memories into worn-out suitcases,
packing more than just clothes, but pieces of home.
Ready to leave behind the old wooden doors,
the cracked walls, the scent of ripe guavas,
and the familiar hum of life
in my village home in Kavrepalanchowk.

She stood silently at the doorstep,
her eyes holding untold stories
of sacrifice, of love, of longing,
of everything I was leaving behind.

The air was thick with silence,
but her gaze said it all -
a quiet acceptance
of a fate she could not alter,
of a love too enormous for farewell.

I glanced back after a few steps,
hoping for a wave, a parting smile.
But she didn’t move.
She simply stood there,
watching me go
as if fearing the city wind might carry me too far
to ever find my way home again.

Years have passed,
and I have crossed borders and oceans,
built a life far from the fields
where I once played as a child.

But that stare
that somber, haunting stare
follows me through bustling streets,
through crowded airports,

through the quiet ache of sleepless nights

in the metropolis.

It reminds me of where I came from,
of who I am,
of all that I left behind.

And no matter how far I travel,
I know that stare will wait for me -
forever etched in the doorway of my past,
waiting for the day I return home,
whistling my favorite song.