The Last Summer Before the Move

Tenzin had been accepted to his first-choice university in early spring. It was a program in marine biology on the opposite coast, nearly two thousand miles from home. For months, it had felt like the only thing that mattered.

Tenzin diterima di universitas pilihan pertamanya pada awal musim semi. Itu program biologi kelautan di pesisir seberang, hampir tiga ribu kilometer dari rumah. Selama berbulan-bulan, hanya itulah yang terasa penting.

Then, in June, his grandfather's heart condition worsened, and hospital visits became more frequent than anyone in the family wanted to admit out loud. His grandfather had taught him to fish, to whittle, and to sit quietly without needing to fill the silence with words.

Lalu, pada bulan Juni, penyakit jantung kakeknya memburuk, dan kunjungan ke rumah sakit menjadi lebih sering daripada yang berani diakui siapa pun dalam keluarga. Kakeknyalah yang mengajarinya memancing, mengukir kayu, dan duduk diam tanpa perlu mengisi keheningan dengan kata-kata.

His parents never asked him to stay. If anything, they insisted, almost too often, that he should go and not think twice about it. Despite their reassurances, Tenzin couldn't stop doing the math: four years away meant missing whatever time his grandfather had left.

Orang tuanya tak pernah memintanya tinggal. Malah, mereka terlalu sering menegaskan bahwa ia harus pergi dan tak perlu berpikir dua kali. Meski sudah diyakinkan, Tenzin tak bisa berhenti menghitung: empat tahun jauh berarti kehilangan sisa waktu yang dimiliki kakeknya.

His friend Nkechi, who had left for university the year before, called him most weekends. She had told him more than once that regret cut both ways, and that staying could be its own kind of loss.

Temannya, Nkechi, yang berangkat kuliah tahun sebelumnya, menelepon hampir setiap akhir pekan. Lebih dari sekali ia mengatakan bahwa penyesalan bisa datang dari dua arah, dan bahwa tinggal pun bisa menjadi kehilangan tersendiri.

"You'll regret staying more than you'll regret going," she told him bluntly one Sunday. "I know that's not what you want to hear."

"Kamu akan lebih menyesal kalau tinggal daripada kalau pergi," katanya terus terang pada suatu hari Minggu. "Aku tahu itu bukan yang ingin kamu dengar."

"You didn't have a grandfather in the hospital when you left," Tenzin said.

"Waktu kamu pergi dulu, kakekmu tidak sedang di rumah sakit," kata Tenzin.

"No," Nkechi admitted, "but I've watched two friends defer their whole lives for someone else's timeline. Neither of them got that time back afterward."

"Memang tidak," Nkechi mengakui, "tapi aku sudah melihat dua temanku menunda seluruh hidup mereka demi jadwal orang lain. Tak satu pun dari mereka mendapatkan waktu itu kembali."

Tenzin spent the last week of July sitting with his grandfather on the porch most evenings, saying very little, the way they always had. His grandfather, who had been listening to the family's careful half-conversations for weeks, finally brought it up himself.

Tenzin menghabiskan minggu terakhir bulan Juli dengan duduk bersama kakeknya di beranda hampir setiap malam, hanya sedikit berbicara, seperti yang selalu mereka lakukan. Kakeknya, yang berminggu-minggu mendengarkan percakapan setengah-setengah keluarga yang penuh kehati-hatian, akhirnya mengangkat topik itu sendiri.

"If you stayed for me, I would spend every day feeling guilty about it," his grandfather said. "Go. Call on Sundays. That's the deal."

"Kalau kamu tinggal demi Kakek, setiap hari Kakek akan merasa bersalah," kata kakeknya. "Pergilah. Telepon setiap Minggu. Itu kesepakatannya."

Tenzin should have asked him sooner what he actually wanted, instead of quietly guessing on his behalf for weeks. He left for orientation three weeks later, his acceptance letter finally taken down from the refrigerator and packed carefully between two books. On the drive to the airport, he cried the whole way, not from regret, but from a gratitude he couldn't yet name.

Seharusnya Tenzin bertanya lebih awal apa yang sebenarnya diinginkan kakeknya, bukan diam-diam menebak mewakilinya selama berminggu-minggu. Tiga minggu kemudian ia berangkat untuk orientasi, surat penerimaannya akhirnya diturunkan dari kulkas dan diselipkan hati-hati di antara dua buku. Dalam perjalanan ke bandara, ia menangis sepanjang jalan, bukan karena penyesalan, melainkan karena rasa syukur yang belum bisa ia namai.