My Mother, My Soul

Licking off the last visible sauce from his now empty plate of chee cheong fun, he smiles a smile that stems from the heart, with obvious fond memories he has of the maternal side of his extended family, "mommy, I am so happy we are going to Singapore soon".  "Who is the one that you want to see the most?", I ask, expecting to hear a clear cut reply, "all of them, mommy. Mama, gong gong, dayi, dua tio, sanyi, sa tio, babi, ah Fu, Ting Ting, Audra, Tessa and Zelda."

That isn't what I have expected.  I have assumed he would blurt out Mama (my mother) because that would be the reply to my own question.  But he has so much love for all of them, he couldn't decide who he wants to see most.  He wishes to see ALL of them ALL at once.  His endearing answer warms me up and makes my heart swell in size.

In the next seconds, some thoughts bombarded my mind.  Thoughts that aren't so pleasant.  In fact, thoughts that send a shiver down my spine.

In less than 2 months, we will be flying home.  I am going to see my mother.  My mother.  I am going home to see my mother.  Did I already mention I am going home to visit my mother?  She is so dear to me, she is like a part of me.  No, wrong, I am a part of her.  No, not correct.  We are a part of each other.  Of course, I am her flesh and blood.

Ever since I moved out of Singapore, close to 7 years ago, living my own independent life, as a wife and as a mother, living a life that is far away from a typical Singaporean daughter's life, I see more and more of my mother's shadow growing in me.  I hear her in the words I say, I see her in the things I do.  All positive ones.

As a mother, I always fret to see my children misbehaving, my face turns pale when I hear them repeat the things I say when I scold them.  Because being a mother is an everyday non-stop event for me, I tend to forget I am a daughter too, that I am a child to my mother, regardless of my age.  Children are reflections of their parents, and I am my mother's reflection.  I say it with pride.  Big, tall pride.

My mother in her kitchen on 12 June 2012. Photo taken by Zoe.

My mother isn't great with words, isn't entirely comfortable in expressing her inner feelings (though this is slowly going away), sometimes spares too much thoughts on others and forgets about her own well-being.  She is beautiful, extremely creative, frugal, intelligent (though uneducated, imagine if she was educated, she would be more brilliant than now).  My mom is self-sacrificial (overly, more often than desired), magnanimous, patient (it takes alot to blow her up, and I don't remember her blowing up like I have done so many times in my 12 over years of motherhood), generous, extremely giving, totally dislikes conflicts to the extent that she would rather suffer in silence than fight for her own rights, expresses her love to us not verbally but through her actions.

My mother is my idol.  She is a walking sign of love.  She is the logo for love.  I wholeheartedly adore her.  I am infinitely proud to have this honour to be associated with her.  Yet I stand nowhere close to her virtues and admirable character.

When I talk about my mother to any of my friends here, they seem to have the false impression that my father is no longer around.  It isn't their fault to make that assumption.  The words, "my mom" hang loosely on my mouth whilst "my father" I tightly seal.  I have my reasons.  For now, I stop here.

So, my thoughts.  The reason why I am so excited about going home is because I am going to see my mother.  Not the food.  Not sight-seeing.  Naturally I am also so looking forward to see my sisters and their children.  And my friends.

But.

I don't even think I am capable of typing my thoughts out now.  In all honesty, she is the ONLY reason for my excitement.  I don't need any other reasons to boost my excitement, which is already in full-blast.

I wonder if I would have the same level of excitement, looking-forwardness if my ONLY reason to go home is gone.  Would I still want to go home?  If she is the ONLY reason I want to go home to, the flip side is apparent.  I have NO reason to go home if she is gone.

Home is where love is.  My mother is love.  Profound love.  If and when the time comes, would I want to visit that home that would only tear me apart, break me into pieces, send me to a frenzy state of emotional chaos and turn me into a bucket full of tears?  Because everything there would remind me of her.  E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G.  Her sewing machine, kitchen, radio, sofa, bed, floor, clothes, toilets, basins.  My memories of her must not be triggered by all the tangibles, yet it is only brutally inevitable.

What is my soul going to do without her?  The knowledge of her breathing at the back of my mind forms the pillar of strength in my daily life.  It is precisely that that keeps me going.  Life will go on, but I know mine will stop... until I am able to garner enough strength to pick myself up again and move on.

Ma... keep breathing for me.  Even though I will see you very soon, I still have a long way to go to become you.  Happy belated Mother's Day.