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Harry's tired eyes gazed out of the glassy windows of the airplane as it sliced the clouds in it's flight. The cabin was slightly astir. Some of the passengers were having quiet conversations. An old woman with silver-blonde hair sitting behind was reading a reddish book, her spectacles was a little enormous. Others were having cups of tea or coffee with biscuits and watching comedy on the screens. Harry felt disinterested. The soldier that sat near him could read sadness and exhaustion in his eyes. Harry had been away from home, from the city of Jacksonville, the place where he grew up, and had been deployed as part of a UN peacekeeping force in Afghanistan. The pictures of his life, from his childhood flashed before his eyes as the plane flew. He wasn't seeing the white clouds that looked like humidified cotton wools, he saw himself playing football with his friends, Oliver, Noa, Liam, and others in the streets. He saw himself returning home at sunset and having to bear his mother's angry scolding.
Harry saw his father when he was leaving for his own deployment some 30 years ago. Harry, a mere boy then, had cried his eyes red. His mother pleaded with his dad to resign the military and take care of his family. All he could say to his wife was “just one more deployment, dear, and I will be home.” But he never returned. Not alive anyway.
The plane jerked, bringing Harry back to the present. He sniffled a little noisily and wiped his face with a rumpled red handkerchief. He wondered what was with his mom at this time. She must have grown very old. He imagined her making rounds of the rooms with a walking stick. He imagined her singing out love songs like she and Harry's dad used to do those days in the evening under the apple tree. Only now her voice would be hoarse and rough. Could she still cook now? His mouth watered inspite of himself. He imagined the sumptuous soup her mum always welcomed his dad with, the soup was so full of culinary goodness that Harry at one time bit on his finger while eating and the blood mingled with the thick yellow soup. If she could make it for me, he thought, I would kill right now to have it.
Harry could hear the smooth and clear voice of the pilot. Descent time. The plane cruised like an eagle out of the foamy clouds. Home, Drew thought. And Mom.
The drive in a taxi to their house in 42 Beach Boulevard street was kind of relaxing. He couldn't help but notice the blanket of change that seemed to have been thrown over the whole town. The buildings were newer, more sophisticated. The roads were well paved and the atmosphere was generally lively. The taxi passed the house and had to reverse back.
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Harry knocked on the door like he was unsure. His hands trembled a little and sweat flowed down his body. He half expected to hear his mom's voice. A smell of something cooking hit his nostrils. It was a refreshing and rejuvenating smell. He took a deep breath and his stomach burned with desire. But that's not mom's soup. Well, we'll see.
Sandra, his niece opened the door.
“Uncle Harry is back!”
She jumped on him and gave him a big huge then took his bags from him as they walked into the house. As they entered a tall, lean and muscular man came into the living room.
“Ah.” He said, his face breaking into a welcoming smile. “Harry is that you. Long time, son. Welcome home.”
It was Ethan, his mother's youngest brother. They sat down and had a pleasant discussion, and at certain point Harry asked about his mother. He didn't do this at first because he feared the worst. In all his years living in that house, his mom had always been the one that answered the door.
“Oh.” Uncle Ethan said in a low tone and sighed. “Sorry, she passed some years ago. We wrote you a when she was sick. You didn't get that?”
Harry sighed and kept mute for about 2 minutes. He threw his head back on the sofa.
“I didn't get the letter.” Harry sounded like someone underwater. “What happened, how did she die.”
“Cancer. She suffered a great deal before she passed.”
After the discussion, Harry sat like a cement sculpture on the sofa till his lunch was brought to him. He ate mindlessly. The food was good but it was nothing like his mother's, he told himself. He was missing her badly.
2 days after his return he paid some of his boyhood friends visits. He went rest to Oliver's.
“Oliver died 5 years ago in a motor accident.” Oliver's younger sister who opened the door told him.
Harry was looking at her but was not seeing her. He went to Noa's. Noa was shot by a Drunken police officer. Liam died in prison. Only Mason was alive but he had recently travelled out of town.
Harry walked back home like a limping skeleton. He had come home tired and exhausted, hoping to reconnect with his family and friends. The opposite had happened. They were all gone, even his precious mom.
After a few weeks he managed to settle down to town life, but it wasn't easy without the ones he loved. He felt like a man in a boat out at sea with no land in sight. People who saw him said he wasn't quiet his old self, that the war had changed him.
One afternoon he visited his mother's house, where she lived and died. He went to her room and had a look around. The bookshelf where she kept her books still stood in the corner. The cushions, the bed. That must be the bed she died on, thought Drew. He went over and sat on it and took it's silken bedclothes in his hands. It felt as though he was touching his mother and not the bed. A tear or two slid down his eye.
He rose and went over to the bookshelf and went through the books. He took her favorite book, The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, and opened it. It had turned brown from age and moths had eaten away at some of the edges. As he turned the pages a folder piece of paper fell out and he took it up. It was a letter his mother had written him when she took ill but couldn't mail it. The letter's content made Harry's heart water. She sounded like someone who knew the end was near and was writing to her only son one last time.
In the letter, his mom told him about the restaurant she ran in Cuba which she shut down and fled with her husband to the US. The restaurant was named Santa Rosa. She couldn't reopen the restaurant in the US for lack of funds. But she had always dreamed of owning a flourishing restaurant where people will come to taste her great food. She'd hoped te restaurant would be wo good that people from far and wide would come to eat at it. She told him if he could build the business she would be glad. She had left Harry a large amount of money. She'd been saving up to open the restaurant but sickness caught up with her.
Harry searched the bottom of the bookshelf as the letter said and found a thick exercise book. He opened. It seemed like a recipes' book. His mother had obviously written it, it was her handwriting, slanted and flowery. It was recipes of a whole lot of dishes. It also seemed to contain pieces of advice on how to run the business.
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For days Harry read and reread the book. He decided to open up the restaurant. He first resigned the military. It was a difficult decision but he had to do it to honor his mother's dying wishes. He got a loan to add to the money his mother left him. A year or two nothing dramatic happened. Then the restaurant became more and more popular within the city. The restaurant was most famous for it's chicken and beef soup. Soon the restaurant existed in most cities in the country. Mama would surely be proud, he told himself, as nostalgic feelings overwhelmed him.
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He became something of a public figure from the restaurant. And the cash flow was plentiful. But what gave him joy most was that his mother's long time dream had become reality. That was all that mattered.