The Summer I Didn’t Know Was Goodbye

 The Summer I Didn’t Know Was Goodbye

— A Memory from My Grandparents' Village (2010–2012)

Childhood isn’t always shaped by fairy tales and picture books. Sometimes, it’s stitched together with quiet goodbyes, dusty afternoons, and soft love from people who never asked for recognition. This is a piece of my childhood — tender, imperfect, and unforgettable.

I was always with my parents — until I wasn’t.

I grew up with lullabies and bedtime kisses, wrapped in warmth and soft whispers. But it didn’t last long. I don’t remember the exact words they said that day. Maybe there were none. All I remember is this: one night, I slept in my mother’s arms, and the next morning, I was crying in front of my grandparents’ veranda, saying goodbye to the people who felt like home.

They didn’t leave out of anger — they left for survival. And I stayed behind, not fully understanding. I wouldn’t see them in the evenings anymore. I remember waiting at the door until midnight, holding onto hope, only to wake up with the smell of chai and the familiar creak of the ceiling fan above me.

I cried. A lot. But tears, in childhood, are often short-lived. That ache was soon replaced by the joy of being the “special one” — the girl whose friends came every morning, barefoot and bright-eyed, calling her out to play.

We played in dusty lanes like there was no tomorrow. We stole coins from my grandfather’s pocket for sweet little treats and shared stories like secrets. Over time, I grew used to the aroma of wood-fire cooking, and my grandfather’s quiet gestures became his language of love.

At night, under a star-scattered sky, he told me stories. That tradition still lives with me — except now, it’s podcasts that speak to me in the dark. My grandmother would oil my hair with her weathered fingers, humming softly. Her patience was the calmest thing I’ve ever known.

And sometimes, I wonder: if everything had gone right, would I have these memories to miss?

I missed my parents, yes. But I also learned how to be held by the world in quieter ways. Back then, I didn’t call it separation — I called it waiting. Waiting for a phone call. A visit. Or maybe just a dream where I could sit beside them again without saying anything.

Now, I’m still waiting — but this time, I’m waiting for those days themselves.

Even though I know they won’t come back.

Some memories live longer than people, louder than words. And in the quiet corners of my heart, that village — those games, those hands, those nights — still whisper to me. I no longer cry at the door, but a part of me still stands there… just remembering.