i sent the money again today just transferred it from my account to hers, like i do every month it’s this strange ritual now, this monthly thing i do in the quiet of my kitchen, coffee getting cold, before the emails start flooding in and the real day begins (or what passes for real these days) i sit there, fingers hovering over the numbers, knowing it’s not enough. never enough. not really. because what is money when it’s supposed to be me i mean, she doesn’t say it, not directly. never would. but i can hear it in the pauses, can read it between the lines of her cheerful updates about the garden or the neighbours or the latest thing my sister’s kids are doing over there and i think, god, if i could just be there. if i could just be the one to fix the leaky tap or carry the heavy groceries or just sit beside her on the porch swing like i used to (before i left, before i decided a different life was what i needed, what i deserved) it’s this aching, dull throb in my chest, especially when she mentions feeling tired. or that little cough she’s had (which i know isn't little at all, not for someone her age) and i picture her alone, bundled up, making her own tea. and all i can do is send digits across an ocean. it feels so…insufficient like i’m trying to buy my way out of the guilt. or trying to buy a proxy for my physical presence. and it’s a poor substitute, always will be. a pale imitation of the real thing. (which i know i can’t give right now, not with work, not with the visa stuff, not with everything) and then i get the little whatsapp message, a few hours later, just a simple “thank you my son. god bless.” and a heart emoji. and it makes it worse, somehow. because it’s so…gracious. so understanding. and i don't deserve that understanding. i really don't. i look at my hands now, older, a little spotted, not the strong hands i imagined i’d have by now, the ones that could fix everything. and i think of her hands, smaller now, a bit gnarled from a lifetime of doing. and i just wish i could hold them. instead of sending another bank transfer that probably just covers a new medicine or a repairman. it’s a lonely feeling, this. this constant feeling of being half-here, half-there. like i'm straddling two lives, doing a mediocre job at both. (and getting older by the minute, my own body doing its thing, reminding me time is just…going) and i just keep sending the money. hoping it’s enough to cover the things i can’t do. the things i should be doing. the things i always planned to do.