She throws herself on the bed. She stares at the ceiling, wishing that she could un-check this hideous inbox of hers, un-look anxiously for a notification from the immigration office or un-expect desperately a sign – any sign – that her application is being processed.
If only she could un-waste these past six years – since she was last in Canada and un-lose the chance of staying there and putting her legal papers in order. If only she could un-fear taking this immediate decision and un-ignore the opinion of her immigration consultant – advising her to stay there for two continuous years so that he can settle her legal status, once and for all.
She blames herself for un-having – back then, enough courage and for un-taking a leap of face towards her dream. She tortures herself for un-cutting that umbilical cord which is trapping her, with a false sense of security, inside her motherland’s womb.
She regrets she couldn’t un-worry too much about the future and un-over-calculate each and every step of the way. She resents that she couldn’t un-be this cowardly person. She un-tolerates the fact that she panicked over a seemingly sudden decision while she was supposed to have had taken it way before the consultant’s suggestion.
She’s unable of un-condemning herself. It’s unavoidable, unthinkable, unuseful. But, she simply un-forgives herself.