Iris Liao

The afternoon sun filtered through the car windows as my husband, and I drove to the supermarket, the hum of the engine a steady backdrop to our thoughts. Then the phone rang. It was our daughter. Recently, she had been flying from state to state, attending interviews for medical school fellowships with a packed schedule and immense pressure. Just after her plane landed in San Francisco, the call came through. On the other end, I heard her struggling to hold back tears, but in the end, the sobs broke free.

My husband and I anxiously asked, “What happened?”

The once strong child whispered, “I am homesick,” her sobs breaking through the fragile dam of her composure.  

On this side of the phone, the air inside the car seemed to freeze. My husband and I dared not make a sound, afraid even our breath would be an intrusion. Unconsciously, my throat tightened, sharing in her unspoken ache. After the call ended, we drove in silence, the road home stretching longer than usual. Memories of home, like shards of light, pierced through the quiet, flooding my mind with images of the past.  

I remembered the balcony of my parents’ old house, where bougainvillea bloomed in vibrant hues year-round. My mother would hang clothes of every color beneath the trees, while my father, ever the rebel, would sneak there to smoke, evading my watchful eye.  

On the balcony of my parents’ house, several pots of fragrant bamboo are planted. Potted plants once carefully cultivated by my grandfather. When I see that lush, serene cluster, it feels like the soft glow of dawn rising from the mountain’s edge.  It brings back memories of those days when I would return home and find grandpa there, always present, with his figure so familiar.

I would call out joyfully behind him, “Buddy!” 

And he would respond with a gentle, “Yeah,” lowering the newspaper, turning to face me with eyes full of light.

Both the bougainvillea and the potted plants were lovingly cultivated by my grandpa. Even years after his passing, they still bloom abundantly as if time hasn’t altered their course. Each flower seems to carry his presence. Whenever I return home and push open the balcony door, I imagine him still reading beneath the flowers or quietly tending to the plants. People may leave, but what is eternal endures, thriving without end. The longing for home and the flow of bloodlines intertwines like the vines of a plant—rooted deep, winding and embracing, offering shelter and grace.

When I lived in China, my life was consumed by work.  Even on holidays, when I returned to my parents’ home, I often retreated to my room, too exhausted for conversation. I would hear the faint murmur of the TV in the living room, a sound that never disturbed me but instead brought a quiet sense of comfort.  

Every so often, my mom would quietly step in, standing behind me to check if my tea was still warm. In a gentle voice, she would ask, “Would you like me to warm you a cup of milk?”

It felt just like childhood, reviewing lessons at home while my parents lurked behind me, launching occasional sneak attacks. But back then their eyes held no concern, but sharp vigilance, inspecting whether I was truly focused on my study. If my writing posture was incorrect, a swift tap on the back of my head with their fingers would serve as an unspoken correction, remind me to sit up straight.

The years have passed in silence, and in the blink of an eye, two or three decades slipped away. My parents no longer reprimand me for how I study or work. Now, they only wish for one thing—that I come home more often, if only for a single warm meal.

I often think of the terrace from my childhood home where each time the flowers bloomed, my parents and I would take photos beneath the trees. Back then, there were no digital cameras, only film that had to be developed. Year after year, the faces in the photos changed: the little girl growing up, the parents growing older.

Then one day, we moved away, and the old house was rented out. Yet my father still returned, personally helping the tenants clean the terrace, not just out of kindness, but because he cherished the flowers and plants that grew there, along with the quiet traces of time beneath those trees where his child had once grown before flying far away.

The generation that grew up in the digital age has, unknowingly, stepped into middle age. And yet, amid the endless cycle of seasons, a quiet shame lingers, though flowers bloom year after year. The kindness of our parents remains an unpaid debt. The only prayer we can offer from afar is a silent plea to time itself: Please be gentle with our parents. 

As I reflect on my daughter’s call and the flood of memories it stirred, I realize that homesickness is not just longing for a place but a yearning for the intangible –the warmth of shared moments, the comfort of familiar voices, and the quiet assurance of being loved. It is a reminder that no matter how far we wander, the essence of home remains within us, a compass guiding us back to what truly matters: peace of mind is the path home. 

In our fast-paced, ever-changing world, it is easy to lose sight of the simple yet profound connections that sustain us. We chase success, juggle responsibilities, and navigate the complexities of life, often forgetting to pause and cherish the people who anchor us. My daughter’s tears reminded me that even the strongest among us need the solace of home, the reassurance that we are not alone in our struggles.   

And so, I am learning to carry home with me—not as a distant memory but as a living, breathing presence. It is in the way I nurture my relationships, in the patience I extend to others, and in the quiet moments I carve out for those I love. It is in the bougainvillea I now grow on my own balcony, a tribute to my parents’ home, and in the fragrant bamboo that reminds me of my grandfather’s gentle spirit. 

Home is not static; it evolves with us, shaped by the love we give and receive. It is the legacy we inherit and the legacy we leave behind. As I watch my daughter navigate her path, I hope she carries this truth with her: that no matter how far she roams, she will always find her way home, not just to a place but to the peace that comes from knowing she is deeply loved.  

Just as we said to our daughter over the phone: “No matter how difficult the road may be, if there is a home keep walking. With mother and father, there is home; with home, there is peace.”

May you traverse a thousand waves yet remain by the side of your beloved.