On the cab ride over to my village, my heart bounced almost as much as the tyres on the uneven roads. As the cab maneuvered around the mounds of rubble, I directed my attention to a small makeshift hut where an old woman lay crouched, flies buzzing in a chaotic circle around her weary face. Her face was the same colour and texture as the soil; dry, brown and weathered. Years of working, hunched over, in the rice paddy fields had stooped her posture
‘How much longer?,’ I asked the driver as he changed gears.
He mumbled something in Vietnamese but, because I had not spoken this language for a while, his words were foreign to me. I remained mute, and reflected on the past day. Only 24 hours ago I had discovered the harrowing news. The voicemail message was still ringing in my years. “Your mother has died. Return home, son”.
Consider giving this its own line. I think it is strong enough that it stands alone.As the cab neared a series of cocoon-like shelters, I began to experience a sense of déjà vu. The smell of burning wood wafted into the cab and, without warning, a serene sensation flowed through my body; the smell was the epitome of a childhood I had lost when I had left this place. A vision of my mother cradling me as she threw the wood into the fire sidled into my thoughts. I could see the sparks fly up in anger as the fresh wood disturbed the already disintegrated wood in the pile. This disruption mirrored my own instability at coming back
As I opened the door to my family home, the sight of a miniature shrine caught my attention. My mother’s warm eyes, so lifelike, greeted me. She was now trapped in a photo, no longer here to greet me physically, to greet me with a mother’s love. The earthy incense smoke circled around the photograph; I waved it away as I reached over and lifted the photo.
Guilt. The only two emotions that I had ever felt with regard to my mother were guilt and love. And now, the two intertwined, leaving me standing there, a twisted ball of pain.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ she had questioned, her brown eyes searching my immovable expression for an answer.
‘Mama, you know I have to. Father was displeased and I have disgraced him…again. He will never forgive me for the comments I made in front of his friends”, I replied, my head bowed down in shame.
“ Your father was not disappointed in you”, she said, attempting to reassure me.
You can say,
she attempted to reassure me" and cut out the "she said" if you like! “He had just expected you to do what all our ancestors have done. The military is an honourable career choice but you have to follow your own path.’ She grabbed my hand, warming it in hers and leading me back to the fireplace.
My mother had not told me that day that she was seriously ill. All she had said was to discover ‘my path’, but had I known that that path was never to have met hers again, I would have stayed rooted to the spot, a solid oak tree refusing to bend
In Sydney, I discovered
I'm just keeping track - this is your second use of "discovery." If there's a third, I suggest changing it for a synonym because you don't want to be too overt in forcing a discovery.a city where people were more focused on their 6 figure salaries than the number of runs they scored in the weekend game of cricket. I felt a sense of isolation. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t speak English because, at that time, I had known the basics.
My isolation stemmed from a place that did not resemble home. Even though I rented an apartment in Cabramatta, and even though many people looked like me, I felt like an imposter here. We could speak each other’s language but that is where it ended.
Saddened and alone, I went in search for furniture and items that I could use to turn my one bedroom unit into a replica of home in the village. I bought the same color furniture, the same style of lamp and the same texture of bed sheets; I even used incense sticks to make it smell like home.
Skip a line between these two sections to show the flip in location 
And now, standing here, home again, I wondered what I would say to my father.
Mesmerised by the photo of my mother, I had not heard my father come in but I did hear the shuffling of footsteps as he moved towards the fireplace to add more wood. My father was shorter than I had remembered him; had he shrunk with age or had I grown? His wide face was littered with sun spots, and the wrinkled lines across his forehead gave the impression of a hard life.
He said nothing to me.
I said nothing to him.
I think these two short lines should be bundled together on their own. So drop a line before "He said nothing... " and skip another after "I said nothing...I watched as he started to heat some soup and then lay two bowls and two spoons down on the small table next to the fire. He brought out two brown cushions from a cupboard next to the door and laid them on either side of the table. He looked up and motioned with his hand to sit.
I accepted.
We did not say a word to each other during the entire meal. The chicken broth was not as good as my mother’s. With each spoonful, I looked up at my father, wondering what he was thinking. Finally, when he finished, he lay down his spoon, looked at me and said, ‘Welcome home.’ I smiled, unsure of the intent of the statement.
My father walked over to the same cupboard which had housed the cushions. After much noise, he pulled out a small, wooden chest and placed it in front of me. He then put on his anorak and left me alone.
Curious, I opened the chest. I picked up a wad of unstamped envelopes and then let them slip through my fingers as I realized
realisedwhat they were. I chose one and started reading.I had not seen my father’s writing for fifteen years. Still, I knew the slant of his words, the sharply defined characters. I opened the first letter, curiously and fearfully, unprepared for the overwhelming emotion that imploded from the simple act of reading.
For fifteen years, my father had been writing to me. For the first time in fifteen years, I began to cry.
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Topic: Free AOS Creative Writing Marking! (Read 352620 times)