The Visit

Written by Nefertiti N.

She tied the scarf tightly around her head, covering the grey tendrils on her forehead, and continued washing the pots, humming an old, upbeat tune that masked her uneasiness. It was a tune she knew from her youth many years ago, one that accompanied one of the many folk stories her grandmother would tell. Her husband paced the courtyard with his brow furrowed, and looked sharply at his wife.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No…” she replied, wondering how she would eventually break the news to him.
“Humph…” he grunted, as he walked away, his tall, lean frame disappearing under the curtains that adorn the bedroom door.
She sighed heavily.
Just two days ago, their daughter had come home. She was an adult now, a career woman who called London her home. They had gone to meet her at the airport, their beloved daughter whom they hadn’t seen in five years. She ran toward them, arms outstretched, a look of excitement and apprehension on her face. Her father stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity before embracing and welcoming his daughter home. Her mother immediately hugged her and shed tears…tears of joy for this moment of having her daughter back, and tears of sorrow for what she imagined her daughter had to endure in that foreign land. Her daughter’s now nearly porcelain complexion was hard to miss even under a hat, scarf and shades.
She thought of her daughter in her youth…absolutely beautiful. Her striking features, her rich, deep chocolate skin, and her presence…
A mother always knows…when she spoke to her daughter over the course of the past five years she could hear the insecurity, the emotional aching for…something she couldn’t quite place.
Did she not think she was beautiful? No, it couldn’t be. Her daughter was gorgeous…and had been told so by many. She couldn’t imagine what it was like…to live in a foreign culture for so long…and to lose something…a sense of self? Of self-worth?
An argument between father and daughter later erupted. Although her daughter’s change in complexion was the invisible source of the argument, it was never mentioned nor alluded to…but the damage was done. Her daughter packed her bags and left without a word to her father.
These were the things running through her mind as she washed the pots, and she wondered when she would see her daughter again.
She put away the last of the pots and rose, joining her husband on the cement daybed in the courtyard.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” he asked emptily, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” she whispered back, as the night air hung heavily between them.