A Suitcase Full of Love By Rachel Leung (June 7, 2009)
Leaving home to study taught a young woman that some things never change.
I was studying in London in the late 1970s. That was the beginning of my four-year journey, during which I discovered the most amazing love I have ever known.
I bade a teary farewell to my family at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport. With tears still in my eyes, I boarded the plane, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to hear from them for almost a month.
My flight was delayed for 36 hours at New Delhi. My parents were spared the agony of knowing this news because there were no cell phones for instantaneous communication then. I arrived at Heathrow on a chilly Saturday evening, lugging a large suitcase with one hand and a 1.5-foot long radio-cassette player with the other, and a carrier bag on my shoulder.
Fast forward 28 years and I see my eldest son embarking on a similar journey on his own.
We bade each other farewell at the KLIA, fondly and sadly. There was a lump in my throat, and my eyes were misty. But on the whole, it wasn’t like the separation I had years ago. My son, who had a 3.5kg laptop hanging from his shoulder, a backpack on his back, and a large suitcase, waved me goodbye.
Things change, but the only thing that never changes is the large suitcase that every student carries overseas. It is filled with warm clothing and food that a parent knows her child will miss. Daily essentials like clothes pegs, washing powder, toothpaste, and a rice cooker are carefully packed inside. These are things that the parent knows her child will need during the first few weeks in a foreign land, when he still doesn’t know where to shop. It is a suitcase that contains all the love a child can carry.
Upon settling down at my college dormitory, I set off to write my first letter to my parents. The letter would take more than a week to reach them and I had to wait another week or so before I could hear from them.
Every letter from my family was hastily opened and each word read and re-read. My father replied to every one of my letters without delay. He never said that he loved me in his letters. But through the lines, I knew he must have read my letters umpteen times, trying to make out whether I was happy or not. Was I eating well? How were my studies?
He had many questions to ask me but had to wait for at least three weeks before he could get my reply. In the meantime, he kept reminding me about what he had said before: eat well, put on more layers of clothing, and so on. As a daughter, I called it nagging. Now that I am a mother, I understand that it is called love.
When my son arrived at the Perth airport in Western Australia, he was met by his friend. We heard his voice again eight hours after bidding him farewell. During those hours of being incommunicado, I was agitated, not knowing whether he went through customs alright or not. What if his friend forgot to fetch him?
I thought of my parents and wondered how they could have put up with weeks of uncertainty before my first letter arrived. How did they go through their lives when every minute of their days was spent worrying about me, not knowing whether I had arrived in London or not? And, was I able to find my way to the college?
I only called my parents once a year, during the Chinese New Year. I made the international call at the main post office at Trafalgar Square. When my call was put through, I quickly delivered my prepared message. After all, a three-minute phone call at that time cost me almost a quid, so there was no time for nonsense like, “Mama I miss you”.
We Skype our son at least once a week. We can see each other through webcam. We talk for hours, not only my son and me, but the whole family, at the same time. It is like chatting at the dinner table, except that physically we are miles apart. I am spared the agony of uncertainty, like what my parents went through years ago, when news only came with the postman.
When I graduated, my parents were unable to go to London and share my joy. I sent them my graduation photo which I took at a studio. It’s still hanging on the wall of their living room today. This photo signifies all the sacrifices they had made to give me the best education possible.
Last September, we went to Perth to attend my son’s convocation. Compared with my parents, I had a much easier time when it came to sending children overseas.
I discovered my parents’ love during my four years in London, a love that I never realised was always present until I left them. It is an endless love which is passed from one generation to another.
My sacrifices for my children are insignificant compared to my parents’ for me. I thank them for giving me this endless love, which I can pass on to my children.
Leaving home to study taught a young woman that some things never change.
I was studying in London in the late 1970s. That was the beginning of my four-year journey, during which I discovered the most amazing love I have ever known.
I bade a teary farewell to my family at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport. With tears still in my eyes, I boarded the plane, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to hear from them for almost a month.
My flight was delayed for 36 hours at New Delhi. My parents were spared the agony of knowing this news because there were no cell phones for instantaneous communication then. I arrived at Heathrow on a chilly Saturday evening, lugging a large suitcase with one hand and a 1.5-foot long radio-cassette player with the other, and a carrier bag on my shoulder.
Fast forward 28 years and I see my eldest son embarking on a similar journey on his own.
We bade each other farewell at the KLIA, fondly and sadly. There was a lump in my throat, and my eyes were misty. But on the whole, it wasn’t like the separation I had years ago. My son, who had a 3.5kg laptop hanging from his shoulder, a backpack on his back, and a large suitcase, waved me goodbye.
Things change, but the only thing that never changes is the large suitcase that every student carries overseas. It is filled with warm clothing and food that a parent knows her child will miss. Daily essentials like clothes pegs, washing powder, toothpaste, and a rice cooker are carefully packed inside. These are things that the parent knows her child will need during the first few weeks in a foreign land, when he still doesn’t know where to shop. It is a suitcase that contains all the love a child can carry.
Upon settling down at my college dormitory, I set off to write my first letter to my parents. The letter would take more than a week to reach them and I had to wait another week or so before I could hear from them.
Every letter from my family was hastily opened and each word read and re-read. My father replied to every one of my letters without delay. He never said that he loved me in his letters. But through the lines, I knew he must have read my letters umpteen times, trying to make out whether I was happy or not. Was I eating well? How were my studies?
He had many questions to ask me but had to wait for at least three weeks before he could get my reply. In the meantime, he kept reminding me about what he had said before: eat well, put on more layers of clothing, and so on. As a daughter, I called it nagging. Now that I am a mother, I understand that it is called love.
When my son arrived at the Perth airport in Western Australia, he was met by his friend. We heard his voice again eight hours after bidding him farewell. During those hours of being incommunicado, I was agitated, not knowing whether he went through customs alright or not. What if his friend forgot to fetch him?
I thought of my parents and wondered how they could have put up with weeks of uncertainty before my first letter arrived. How did they go through their lives when every minute of their days was spent worrying about me, not knowing whether I had arrived in London or not? And, was I able to find my way to the college?
I only called my parents once a year, during the Chinese New Year. I made the international call at the main post office at Trafalgar Square. When my call was put through, I quickly delivered my prepared message. After all, a three-minute phone call at that time cost me almost a quid, so there was no time for nonsense like, “Mama I miss you”.
We Skype our son at least once a week. We can see each other through webcam. We talk for hours, not only my son and me, but the whole family, at the same time. It is like chatting at the dinner table, except that physically we are miles apart. I am spared the agony of uncertainty, like what my parents went through years ago, when news only came with the postman.
When I graduated, my parents were unable to go to London and share my joy. I sent them my graduation photo which I took at a studio. It’s still hanging on the wall of their living room today. This photo signifies all the sacrifices they had made to give me the best education possible.
Last September, we went to Perth to attend my son’s convocation. Compared with my parents, I had a much easier time when it came to sending children overseas.
I discovered my parents’ love during my four years in London, a love that I never realised was always present until I left them. It is an endless love which is passed from one generation to another.
My sacrifices for my children are insignificant compared to my parents’ for me. I thank them for giving me this endless love, which I can pass on to my children.
