Last year around this time, I hopped on a crazy ghetto domestic flight from the city I live in now to the capital, dropped off my things, and went to pick up my mom at the fancy international terminal (imagine crystal-ish chandeliers, air conditioning, and duty free shops 20 feet away from the dust and heat of the city- still astounds me with its randomness). It had been seven months since I had seen anyone from home and I will never forget peering through the grimey glass windows and seeing her little curly head and purple jumper power walking through the customs line to get to the exit. I had a volunteer from the states and my boss with me to help with her things (she brought four bags of American goodness), but there was that moment of unbelievable stillness, almost to the point of surreal, when I realized she was truly here- and she was here for me.
I dragged her around the city for the next two weeks: we cooked and laughed and bickered and watched movies and went through the glorious array of things she had brought from America (Bacon! Pepperoni! Tortillas!) . She in turn organized my kitchen, scoured the market (with me lagging slightly behind, her stamina is incredible) for material for curtains, sewed, bought me random African Tupperware, and generally dazzled my friends, colleagues and whoever she met with her southern charm.
She was, is, wonderful. Perhaps you'll meet her one day and say the same.
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