mudd
Joined: 27 Mar 2006
Posts: 37
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 Posted: Tue Mar 28, 2006 5:28 am Post subject: A Mother's Day Special.. |
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It's long 'til Mothers Day. And being a total sucker for well-written articles, I'd like to share this with you.
I did not write this article. I stumbled upon this some months ago and it deeply touched me. Source: http://www.peyups.com/article.khtml?sid=2191
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Xylophone: of moms and birthdays
Her words are now lost in the merciless deluge of time, that which ceaselessly marches forward the only remnant it leaves is remembrance. But much of the feeling and sight of that blissful morning are etched in the deep recesses of my being, not even time can obscure.
Mama, I recall, was radiantly beautiful in her green �dusters�, curlers on her head, fresh from her morning ablution. I just turned 4, maybe 5 -- husk-haired, a little scrawny, impish boy with 2 upper front teeth missing -- wearing my nightly get-up: a mangled oversized shirt fit for a rug if it wasn�t clean enough. I was an early bird. I guess when you�re young, waking up at 6am is a pleasant thing to do. For some reason, Durano St was particularly foggy that morning.
I recall peeking out at the street through the spaces between the slabs of wood that covered what used to be a sari-sari store area of our rented house. ( When we moved in, it became a useless cranny). A horse-drawn cart passed by. On it, a boy about my age slept over bundles of kangkong so I strained to look if the leaves were dry. I mustn�t have figured it out because I did wonder how cold it must have been if the leaves were damp. I went back inside our candle-lit house (we had no electricity) and apart from the smoke emitted by the candles, I saw a steam rising from a bowl of some soup. Noodles maybe.
Mama motioned me to go back with her to that �useless� cranny. She pulled out one of the slabs of wood and we sat on the floor where the morning light could seep through. Tricycles were passing by. Tykes in their uniforms meandered on the street with eager faces, some already soiled from their infantile fracas. Could they read already? I wondered.
Mama was now blowing the soup and started giving me a spoonful at a time, wiping my mouth after each spoon I took. She was looking at me intently and I recall a weird, sad expression on her face. It was a look that tried to tell me many things. Like telling a kid �This is the best I�ve got for your birthday son� and wish he wouldn�t want any more. Yet, wanting the best for him, it�s painful to see him gulp noodle soup on his special day.
I looked outside, diverting my attention to school kids passing by. From this day on, I�d feel uncomfortable looking at sad expressions with varying sketches of angst. That which tells me �I�m sorry, anak, you have to settle for hand-me-downs� and so on. Not that I�d die to have the things that look was apologizing for. I guess I could understand the feeling to want something perfect for someone and always settling for not even the next best thing. At best, it is a hollow, unsettling feeling.
After the soup was another bowl which contained seasoned soft-boiled eggs. Mama was saying things: about how big I grew up each time we saw each other, reminded me to be a good boy, about soup and egg. I distinctly remember her say that egg is a nutritious food and can help me grow up healthy and �pogi�. Amen�..
The morning sun was rising now and some of its rays hit us. For some reason, it made my mom grow resplendent and ethereally beautiful. I was mesmerized admiring a grown-up�s look for the first time.
After the meal, Mom lovingly kissed me on the forehead, and whispered �Happy Birthday, �nak.� She then asked me to close my eyes. I did. When I was told to open them, I had before me a mini-xylophone whose multi-colored keys glowed in the rays of the morning sunlight. I was speechless. This was my first real gift! Up until then, my most cherished possession was a gold-colored t-shirt with St. Bernard�s puppy image on the front (which was made doubly special because I was allowed to wear it only on special occasions, which came very rarely).
Now a xylophone! A real, department store toy, not some makeshift plaything. Wow! I couldn�t wait till that darned Kokoy, a neighbor my age who never shared his toys with us, saw it. He�d die of envy, bah! I was so engrossed in figuring out how to make Kokoy's mouth water with envy so I didn�t notice when my Mom�s face began to light up. I must have looked real happy. It didn�t occur to me to thank her.
Sometimes, I like to remember that scene in a cinematic mode �hugs and dramatically-scripted words for Mama, the works. Too bad we weren�t trained to be generous with appreciation. I remember she played the first few notes and handed the thing to me. It was so precious I looked at it long and hard before striking its keys, producing discordant sounds. For one moment there, I was riding on the wings of pure bliss and I was aware of it. I knew Mama was happy too, the creases on her face formed by that �weird� expression already flushed, her face mirrored a serene, quiet joy.
That was the best birthday I ever had and the most tender moment I spent with Mama. I guess the fact that she wore the pants in the family did not allow her the liberty to watch me grow up and spend more quality time. Her burning ambition to send all five of us to school detached her from maternal duties and sometimes made her morose. Her seriousness at home was accepted, not grudgingly but with a helpless notion that her circumstance created that facade. Her tenderness was often displayed in silence.
The last graduation she attended was mine. Needless to say, it was a special day for her, as it was for me. For me, it meant the beginning of fulfilling all my dreams. For her, it meant the 4th was up, only 1 to go � the culmination of her victory just around the corner. Her joy was undeniable. But sadly, she did not live to see the day my youngest brother accepted his college diploma. She died two years earlier, at 56. I was heartbroken. I mourned not only of losing her but of her being denied the chance to witness her victory. She earned it�.
Deep inside, I nurtured the hope to find Mom relaxed and fulfilled in life. Then I could play a child before her, lay my head on her lap and have her cuddle me again. Then I�d say the things I haven�t said. I�ll tell her I love her until she muffles my mouth to stop me. I�ll tell her she has a beautiful face, more beautiful than the faces of all my playmates� moms. I�ll ask her to write me instead of having Dad write me in her stead. I�ll tell her I�m very proud of her I keep telling all my friends how she raised all of us single-handedly. I�ll tell her I�d love to see her grow old gracefully.
And I want her to stay with me. I�ll tell her all my children will surely adore her and that I�ll make sure they�ll have many wonderful memories of her. I�ll tell her she is more than what I dreamed of for a Mom when I was smart enough to figure it out. I�ll tell her I�d be happy to be half the character that she is�� and so on�
Then perhaps the sun�s rays will find us and put radiance on her face once more. Perhaps I�ll see her countenance � this time a look that exudes happiness and content. Perhaps both of us will bask in the sound of that mini-xylophone in our heads. And for one peaceful moment, at least for me, experience bliss once more.
God, I miss her. Terribly. |
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