A Mother’s Day

“Happy mother’s day!” my father exclaimed as he finished the song he was singing in haste. From what I could see, he really was in a jovial mood. My mother was there in the sofa, looking fascinated with dad. She seemed more relaxed than ever, leaning back in the sofa, with her legs propped, and her arms crossed across her chest.

“Come on now children, greet your mother and give her a kiss.” I heard him say while I was slumped on the floor and busy trying to solve a puzzle with my siblings. We’ve been solving this for hours, but it seems like we have to allocate more to finish this one. We’re not giving up anyway.

Leaving the puzzle still unsolved on the floor, we got up to comply with our father’s request. One by one, from the eldest to youngest, we went to greet and kiss her. “Happy mother’s day mom,” we chimed in. She appeared so happy and contented. The radiant smile, the glowing eyes, her aura, says it all.

I snapped back into reality. Well, too bad that was just a memory from a Mother’s Day a couple of years back. I didn’t notice how long have I been looking into a blank space and reminiscing that particular day. The cabinet baubles I’ve been arranging were left waiting. It’s a Saturday, a day off from work, and my usual day for doing the home chores.

I felt the all-too familiar constriction of my chest, a lump forming in my throat, and the tears that always threatens to fall whenever I would remember my mom. This day is supposed to be a celebration of her day – Mother’s day. But that is not happening, at least not when she’s not home anymore.

She wasn’t a perfect mother; I don’t think there’s ever one. But what I know is that mothers would always try, and she did. I could imagine her waking up early, cooking her kind-of-acceptable foods, and just managing everything in the house. When she’s done, she would lie down on the sofa or sit down on her favorite chair, and tell me stories she has told me a million times before. She wouldn’t remember, and I didn’t have the heart to spoil her story-telling mood.

But all of those were ruined. I came home one day with a man sitting on the living room, waiting for me. I couldn’t figure out what purpose could he have for the visit as I have never seen him before.

“Steph, I came here to ask for your mother’s hand.” Those were his exact words. Or maybe it wasn’t. I am not at all too sure now. I only remember feeling the shock numbing my senses, leaving me without words, unable to move, and comprehend those words. And then the world started to whirl, and ever so slowly, as if time was not ticking in its usual way, I fell to the ground. Unconscious. With my mother’s blurry outline of image in my mind.

Funny how it’s been months now since that day happened. I picked up my phone and scanned the long list of my contacts. There’s her name, safely kept. Should I give her a call? Or leave a message perhaps? It’s Mother’s Day after all.

Seconds passed. I put my phone down and decided against both. Not now. Not yet. At least not yet.