They left this morning.
I should be used to it anyway, since I left home 18 years ago and since then this ritual of leaving and visiting repeated itself all over the years.
I should be, but I cannot get used to the night before, were time drags on and on, slow as a snail and in which you feel like you were wasting each second of it instead of doing something wonderful of it.
And I know I should be, but I cannot get used to the morning of the departure with our last breakfast together, the clock ticking and those embarassed silences that already feel like "goodbye" in which you do not know what to say at all.
And I cannot get used to that car that becomes smaller and smaller , my mother winking inside and to the final moment in which it turns around the street corner and is gone from my daily life.
And I cannot get used to going back inside and look around , seeing all the changes, as small or as large they can be, from the tiles in the kitchen and Boiler room to the decoration my mom made in the bathroom.
Or the little helper that keeps me company in the kitchen.