It's the eighth saturday and today, mom left earlier than the usual.
From the other side of the window, she waved at me with the usual "goodbye sweetie, take care" in a voice that can soothe your entires like a breeze and the sound of the rustling of leaves that follows on a winter night.
Mom, like all the best mothers knows every ounce of me. So everytime before leaving she prepares my bed, makes my coffee exactly how I like it, with two teaspoons of sugar except for today she did only put one. Today, she seemed to be in an utterly strange haste.
I poured the coffee in my father's favourite cup that mom keeps abandoned in the darkest corner of the house just like her wedding day photographs and the pricking past memories of a long gone love.
It's been twelve weeks since father left the house with a woman who wore a gown in pale white. As pale as my mother's chapped lips that no more utter the name "Ralph" and no more hum songs of loyal love.
It's also been eight weeks that mother visits men on Saturdays and holds them against her chest to make each one of them feel the hurricanes that tear apart her insides. She says to me, "letting go is an art, honey and you master the things you repeat over and over" .
So my mother visits men on every saturdays and lets go their memories just like one bids goodbyes to the winter winds.
My mother is a beautiful woman and once was a beautiful lover when she believed that the man she ever loved was for her alone.
She writes down the name of each affair in her spiral bound diary on each Saturday before leaving. I have this bad habit of flipping through the pages of the diary to know the name of the most recent affair.
Today's affair named "Mr Ralph". Now I know why mother left early today.
Probably, "Mr Ralph" is going to be her favourite affair.
