Mother

I dreamed of my late mother again. She was habitually muttering on and on about looking after my own health, the wisdom of early to bed and early to rise etc etc. Then she would randomly talked about all and sundry at home. That sent me on a guilt trip, remembering how I used to go against her well wishes, to knowingly carry on with things that displeased her. Well I was her favourite son, youngest, dearest. Even if she paid me a bit more attention, so what ? I tried to rationalise. But having reconsidered the frequencies and the underlying circumstances, I realised I was overdoing it. Somehow there was always a gnawing distress, a moral anguish arising from being so unkind.. I owed her a great deal, way too much ! To take my mind off the issue, I went on to surf the net for some chicken soup for the soul . Instead I read a few poems that were full of praises for mothers and I finally found one that I really liked:

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept, for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me? My Mother

 I couldn't help but moaned and lamented, gradually lost in my own world as I walked down memory lane. Subsequently I made some feeble attempts to translate the poem into Chinese, just to see if it would still have the kindred spirit.

As I proceeded with the first draft, I noticed someone wrote sporadically on her own Facebook wall. Apparently she heard her Mum calling out from another bedroom, requesting for breakfast. Happily she said yes to her mother who had been away. As she sprang up from bed, she realised it was a dream, and just a dream.. !! Mum passed off a year ago. Could she..... would she.......? Dashing to Mum's room, she cried out loud. There was a half-faded photograph on the dressing table, amidst other old, dusty furnitures in an otherwise empty room. That was reality, a hard fact.. How could mother be there at all? She lost control of the waterworks and remained listless for the whole day. Her only outlet to vent her sadness was her FB timeline. But she could hardly express her hopelessly helpless hurts. Her emotional outbursts were simply abrupt. She missed her mother dearly and was probably drowning in sorrow, intoxicated by her own tears.

Some decades back, I bade my grey haired mother farewell as I left home for greener pastures. She was apologetical, saying if only she had some savings, her youngest son would not have to venture out far. Still, she was not prepared to leave our home town to be with me, as she desired to spend the rest of her days in the same neighbourhood. As far as she was concerned, she would be a liability wherever she went.

I clearly heard her praying in her own way, calling upon my deceased eldest brother, and two other names (I found out later that they were my siblings who died in their tender age) to accord me guidance and protection. I was the youngest who needed help. She did not have tears there and then, because her eyes were filled with sadness and there was no room for anything else. Yet her shattered heart kind of twisted her wrinkled face, which was just pale skin over sunkened cheeks. She looked worn out and completely devastated. I feared it might be our last good bye. As it turned out, that was our last embrace indeed.

30 years on, the scar remains as fresh. I've developed a phobia about visiting the old house. Each time it came to that, I would lose sleep till the wee hours, the remorse returning to haunt me. With rue, my heart would be laden.