Some of us are not given the right chances at the right moments to confess our love. It could be a sign of fear or immaturity. It was the latter for me. I have lost the chance to let my mother know that I was immensely proud of the paths she had walked on. It took me twenty years to feel her agony because I had just evolved into a woman of wounds. Like herself I had tolerated betrayal, disrespect and the sheer disgust from being taken for granted.
It’s Mother’s Day, I know what days of memories bring. Especially the ones where we cannot shake off their thoughts, the ones who have departed physically or emotionally. Where we ache to see them and be able to communicate our love, as a woman now. Guilt resides in silent corners of our screaming hearts over missed moments where we could have given them a verbal gift but restrained our words of sympathy. The times when we could not muster the courage to make them feel accomplished upon the sky of wonders they had designed.
I hear tales of my mother and am only left with astonishment. She gracefully carried herself as a compassionate daughter, a selfless mother, an unpaid servant, a supporting sister and above all a “hardworking” father. She hid her complexities and tried to equip me with confidence. I remember asking her one time; “Did you want to pursue a profession, if you were provided higher education?” I came to realize that she had wanted to be an air-hostess but the people she was destined to inhabit among and circumstances she had been faced with altered her passages somehow. I failed to show my concerns because I was young, shy and like every dumb teenager. If there could have been a postal service between the two dimensions my letters would have circulated around appreciation, honor and spiritual hugs that I missed out on.
I intend to baffle your minds if you have not been an opportunist with your mother. You may see them growling all the time but they secretly wait for your recognition. They really do! Our kind words enlighten them with joy and peace. What I learnt from my loss was to replicate my gestures for my maternal aunt and pay attention to her life. We forget to consider that our mothers would have had aspirations in their youth. She must have been a young heart with dreams of her own (domestic or professional). She would have stood in the same places we stand today. Grab every opportunity to be flirtatious with her. Pour every ounce of your gratitude and cheesy-love.
Was I punished when she had gone numb and unconscious to attend to my feeble-goodbye words? I don’t have an answer. My confession time was sealed at eighteen years of age, but if any reader still has a chance…mothers do not return to wipe our tears. Save her and your own self from the excruciating pain of hollowness and eternal remorse.