Going Home

Our last day in Kediri began with the kind of silence that only lingers when something is about to end. It wasn't the absence of sound, but the quiet hush of everything carrying on as usual—only slower, more thoughtful, like the world itself was taking a breath. The roosters crowed on schedule, the distant hum of a television drifted through the morning air, playing a familiar holiday movie from the neighbor's house down the road. A motorbike rumbled past with a lazy buzz, and somewhere in the neighbor's house, a child laughed. But even those sounds felt muted, like someone had wrapped them in cotton. The air was warm and still, and the sunlight filtering through the windows looked softer, gentler—like the town knew we were leaving, and didn't want to startle us.

Inside the house, the atmosphere wasn't heavy with sadness, but it wasn't exactly cheerful either. It hovered somewhere in that strange space between ending and moving on. The walls of the house, which had once echoed with our voices and laughter, now held a quieter energy. Even the usually creaky floorboards seemed to step a little more carefully. We moved around slowly, deliberately, folding stray clothes, gathering last-minute things, glancing out the windows without really looking at anything. Every corner of the house held memories, of shared meals, lazy afternoons, and quiet nights filled with old stories. It made the air feel heavier, like it was soaked in the weight of the goodbyes we hadn't said yet.

And then… Grandma began her mission.

The small gifts operation.

It started quietly—innocently, even. Just a few plastic bags appeared beside the door after breakfast, placed there without ceremony. A couple of snack packs, maybe some homemade rempeyek or keripik tempe, neatly tied off with rubber bands and that telltale old-lady precision. We nodded, smiled, said thank you, and assumed that was it.

We were so, so wrong.

By mid-morning, the pile had doubled in size like some kind of benevolent monster made of food and love and zero consideration for luggage weight limits. It sprawled over the doormat, a small mountain of so called small gifts. Soon, it wasn't just snacks. A box of bananas arrived, freshly picked and still dusty from the yard. A bundle of tape singkong, sweet and sticky, wrapped in newspaper with that specific crinkle that only comes from things folded with care. Several packs of sambal pecel joined the hoard—each one lovingly described by grandma as "the best in Kediri," as she was already tasted it beforehand.

And just when we thought it couldn't escalate further, she reappeared with a full bunch of bananas. Not a neat row of them, mind you. The whole bunch of green, thick, and still hanging from the original string, as if she had just snipped it off the tree moments earlier. She stood there, holding it up like a prize, smiling with that no-nonsense expression. We looked at each other, at the growing mountain of goods beside the door, at our overstuffed bags that had already screamed for mercy hours ago. And we laughed. Not out of mockery, but out of pure love. Because this ridiculous, excessive, beautiful gifts was her way of holding on. Of saying goodbye without having to say the words.

And deep down, we knew we'd try to fit it all.

Our bags were already full before all of this. We had no suitcases, just those massive travel bags that you close by kneeling on top and hoping the zipper survives. Now, we were faced with a small mountain of oleh-oleh and a big question:

How are we going to carry all this?

But Grandma was firm. She wasn’t asking if we wanted to bring it all. In her eyes, leaving without oleh-oleh is not an option. It's a matter of pride. A symbol of love. An unspoken way of saying, “Even if we didn’t talk that much, even if we’re not as close as we used to be—I still care.”

So we got to work. Redistributing weight, finding any possible nook in the bags. We argued over what could stay and what must go. Tried convincing grandma that maybe five bags of keripik singkong was too much, only for her to slip in a sixth one “just in case.”

Outside, the sun climbed higher, casting golden streaks across the courtyard and turning the leaves in the yard a glowing green. The heat was starting to press down, heavy and familiar, the kind that stuck to your skin and made time feel slower, like it was doing us a favor, giving us a little more space to say goodbye.

Our car was scheduled to leave in just under an hour. The house was a flurry of motion now. Zippers zipped open and shut as we tried to compress the impossible pile of belongings into bags that were already stretched to their limits. Shoes were hunted down from under furniture. Phone chargers were yanked from walls. Snacks were crammed into backpacks last-minute with a kind of desperate finesse.

Through it all, grandma hovered, not directly in the way, but never far. She moved around us with the quiet determination of someone who knew exactly what she was doing: pretending to busy herself with little tasks, straightening a mat here, wiping an already clean counter there. But her eyes were everywhere. Watching. Making sure we didn't forget anything. Making sure we didn't forget her.

And then the real goodbye began.

It didn't happen all at once. There was no big moment, no dramatic parting scene like in movies. It just settled in slowly, naturally, like everything else that day. A silence that crept into the edges of conversation. A glance that lingered a little too long. A hand that held on a few seconds more than necessary.

There were no tears. Just small, quiet gestures.

A hug that longer than usual, her arms firm and grounding around our shoulders. A pat on the back, strong and steady, like an anchor. A barely audible sigh when she thought we weren't listening. She didn't say much, because she never really had to. Her love had always been shown, not spoken. Even though we weren't that close to the rest of the family anymore, even though time, and silence, and the kind of hurts that don't always get explained had made things more distant between us… the warmth was still there. Maybe this was her way of loving us. Through hands that never stopped moving, words that danced around what she meant, but actions that told the truth plainly.

And as we finally stepped into the car and the gate creaked open, we glanced back and saw her standing there, one hand resting on the wall, the other raised in a small wave, framed by the doorway of the house that had always waited for us, no matter how long we stayed away.

She stood by the gate, waving, still holding a half-empty plastic bag like she was ready to shove in one last item. The town blurred behind us, fields stretching out, houses getting smaller.

And just like that, our hometown faded into the distance.

--

The silence inside the car wasn't uncomfortable. It was a kind of peaceful emptiness, the kind that comes after something meaningful has happened. Our thoughts floated in and out, but none of them felt urgent. We already said said our goodbyes. The last words had been exchanged, the last hugs given. And somehow, despite everything that had changed over the years, the weight of those small gestures, the bags of food, the soft reminders, the quiet warmth which was more than enough to carry us forward. We drove on, the sun climbing higher. We were simply leaving, not like it was a serious goodbye. And we will definitely come back here for new year, and next year's eid, and next year too.