I.
I was standing on her back, marching tiny steps backward and forward, pressing harder on the areas that she said hurt the most—in between the shoulder blades and the spine, or the opposite ends of her lower back. My body was a weight that hers could still carry. I didn’t know yet it was for us her back had to ache. Such innocence spared me from wondering where else hurt—if there are growing pains my hands or feet could no longer offer relief.
II.
I loved the space between her and the wall; I fit just right. Before I sleep I would plant four kisses on her cheek. Good night. Sleep tight. Sweet dreams. I love you.
III.
It burned. A gigantic rock in my dream rolled inside a dark gray room, crushing me underneath. I woke up with a stainless basin filled with hot water beside me and a soaked towel on my forehead. She helped me sit up and held a small plastic cup with pink fluid to my mouth. It tasted awful but my instincts trusted her. Perhaps it was the manner in which her hand held my back. I was afraid to go back to sleep, fearful of the crushing. But she held my back.
IV.
By the time I went to school, I don’t remember crying.
“I’ll be waiting outside, okay?” She cupped my face and kissed me on the cheek before she walked out the door.
I did not wait for her in a room of colored tables and chairs I didn’t need to climb up to sit on. She left me in a place of toys and boxes of crayons, and too many friends to play with. I stayed not staring at the door wanting to run away to find her. I memorized the alphabet, but I learned something else without intending to. She never taught me how to listen; the gentle convincing of her voice was all it took to learn.
V.
We were watching TV while she was eating alone at the kitchen table. I was looking at her looking at nowhere.
VI.
The night cast a youthful beam as we passed by the buildings. From behind the driver’s seat, I could see her face momentarily flashed with headlights. In my mind, I was telling her I’m sorry. I’m sorry for having such a weak heart. I’m sorry if my body became a weight you are now struggling to carry. Wish I could unload you.
VII.
Something about her hands. I hold them and think they’re beautiful. I hold them and sometimes they don’t hold me back. Like water, elusive, so the more I harden my grip. I close her fingers around the back of my palm, watch them let go. I do it again. Again. Again. Maybe they have grown tired. Something about their fullness screams they have endured a lot. What else did they grasp? Other than kitchenware handles and raw ingredients to cook. Other than a knife. How many times did they fold in prayer for some kind of epiphany? What else other than sacrifice?
VIII.
I want to taste all the dishes she could serve. I want to keep waiting for her to finish hovering between the sink and the stove to be there when she calls me to taste the soup in the ladle. To see her smile when I tell her nothing’s missing, and often a smirk when I tell her it’s delicious. It always is.
IX.
Love. Something intangible taking shape on the soft surface of her palms. Love shaped like a mother’s hands.
X.
I could already see through the maroon curtains huge droplets of rain made abstract by linen. She said, maliwanag na ulan. A bright rain. Not the usual hues of a nearing sunset. It was 17:30, yellow and gloomy. A rain that wasn’t gray, a yellow that never looked quite that somber. No pink. No purple. Just that yellow paled by the sobbing sky. I wonder if it rained in March last year. Two birds found temporary shelter on a neighbor’s PVC pipe. A classic maroon car drenched in sky sweat. Our horsetail plant was destroyed as if the rain were a storm. I extended my arm to feel the pull of gravity in the form of raindrops and thought of what my mother said.
XI.
I was young and with that was a universal feeling of being surrounded yet alone. I remember her eating at the kitchen table, a fragment of time that has long been etched in my memory. I must have feared her that time, thinking she could see something suspended in the air that I could not. I figured now how it must have been lonely to not have someone to sit with you and understand. Someone to eat and cry with. I will never know her loneliness the way my words won’t ever suffice in describing the woman she is. If only I could have been there for her, not as a child but as a grown woman who knows. Someone with arms open to catch the weight of her weary shoulders. I would have told her, just a little longer and it will all be just one bright rain that has elapsed.
XII.
One time I asked her if she knew how to ride a bike. Stories were told while catching our breaths as I pictured her vibrant in her younger years, steadying herself on a bicycle that can only go as far as ten steps maybe. I wonder what her and papa’s laughter sounded like together. I would ask her these questions if only to open a door and take a glimpse of her life as a woman and not as my mother.
I match her steps—left, right, left, right, left, right. Admiring our twin shadows. Watching her outrun me, running after her, then running beside her as we draw closer to the pinker skies. I couldn’t have cared where we were because together was the best place to be.
XIII.
We were almost done washing dishes in the sink when I splashed water on her face. She retaliated until soon enough we were both crouching out of breathlessness from laughter. Her face was red and I bet mine was, too. I can talk about the empty air and how there is no such thing in the presence of my mother’s laughter.
XIV.
She enters the room and brightness sets in. How could she glow like she has never been on the precipice of grief, in the throes of single parenthood? Like nothing could dim her, nothing could dare stand in her way of light. I discovered her name means “a bright shining light shall grow.”
She enters the room and it strikes me how she lives up to it, wherever she goes.
XV.
I hug her. How lucky I am. How lucky I am. How lucky I am.
wow -- I just love how you've structured this beautifully written narrative and love-filled tribute.
what a beautiful tribute 🤍