The bus was filled with noise. But this time, it was filled with the noise of excitement. The noise of happiness and joy. The noise of pride for the country. We were all happy that we were returning back to our village.
Coincidentally I was sitting with the same two boys that I sat with five years ago. Now they were both eleven and ten. They looked more matured and built-up as compared to how they look five years ago. And so I asked them.
"So are you happy to return to our village again?"
"More than happy, we are ecstatic and overjoyed!" they replied with a cheery voice.
I gave them a smile and a nod.
The bus began to move with a jerk. Everyone clapped and cheered. Somehow everyone turned into children again. It reminded me of our first bus trip in my elementary school into a nearby farmstead. Everyone cheered the same way when our bus moved.
During my way back home, I was wondering how the village looked like after five years of farewell. How was my mother? Is she alright? I thought to myself. Five years seemed like an eternity with the war going on. A part of my heart is excited to return home while another part of my heart is reluctant to see the village.
Fear is imminent I thought.
The bus reached the village and stopped in the same spot in which we left the village five years ago. The mothers, looking slightly older, waited happily for the bus to come to a halt and for its passengers to appear from the bus. As the bus' doors opened, everyone rushed out. It was chaotic and touching at the same time.
When they saw their children, the mothers hugged them tightly, as if not wanting to lose their children. Sadly, some children cried when they saw their relatives instead. A sign that their parents were gone. Forever.
I stepped out of the bus and was greeted by aunt Lucy, who was my mother's older sister. My heart beat faster and faster. She's gone too? I thought. Then aunt Lucy grabbed my arm and walked towards one side of the crowd.
There, I saw a figure of a woman on a wheelchair. She was wearing a red dress with a gray sweater. Her hair flimsy and white, dancing in the summer's breeze. Is that mum?
And yes, she is my mother. But no, she is not the victim of the war.
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