Twelve of the sixth of five; Mama

I’d like to talk about something else, amidst the fierce election commotion. I’d like to talk about mothers.
I had a conversation with a mother I work with about her relationship with her daughter. I think, theirs, is the kind every mother wants to have with their children. They talk about everything; school, work, both their secrets. And her daughter never misses out on messaging her while she’s at work, or when asking for permission. Her daughter doesn’t even feel shy talking about having a crush on someone, or her obsession with volleyball players. Being caught in the moment as if I myself am actually part of the story, I felt a lump quickly rose at the back of my throat when asked if I, too, have the same relationship with my mother. A long pause before a shook of head- too slow and ashamed.
This turns into a brief story-telling and a public service announcement to never let anyone break your heart too much. My sister used to have that intimidating aura, and one who doesn’t let her eyebrow get too low. And when she eventually turned into a bouncing pretty bubble, she got her first heartbreak. A heartbreak that broke the walls my brother and I tried to put up as strong and/or siblings who don’t care, and, apparently, a part of our mom’s world, because she’d let her know every little thing that hurt.
I think, that, seeing and feeling your mother cry because, and for you, is probably top of the most painful things you would ever encounter.
And being the different one, it somehow, even unconsciously, was something I’d done a couple of times. I am not at all blaming anything or anyone. I’m simply not the type of child one would use as a best example.

But I thought that the least I could do just so I get to feel less of a burden, is to keep myself from letting my mother know about my pain. I settled on being called the quite one. Or the anti-social. Or the one who would choose friends over family. I’d take that any time than to talk about things that hurt. Let pen, paper, and my blog site deal with that.

Because mothers don’t just listen. They don’t just smile at you and tell you you’ll get over it, or that it’ll get better. They don’t just watch you go on your own. If they call us stubborn, then they’re worse.

Because mothers are stubborn enough to feel every word you say. You will, eventually move on, but they never will. They don’t get over knowing you’ve been through so much, more so when they feel they couldn’t do anything about it. They’ll arm you with so much prayers, meaning they actually never let you on your own. They feel what you feel even when you tell them not to worry. They will.

But, having that joy; the kind that mothers gladly talk about with other people even when it’s out of context- because of the open relationship you have, is a far more better sight than witnessing a ship successfully swerve away from an iceberg.

I don’t know if it’s too late to wish for and also on a day dedicated to you and not for me, but hopefully I’d get to make you feel that.


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