The weather is sick. I know from the way the leaves move.
I can tell.
The sky is a shade of grayish blue that invokes a feeling of nostalgia and suffering. It is singing the same ode to Mothers and home-cooked meals that I just sang a few seconds ago.
I am sick too. Fever and asthma are the main culprits. I don’t like it. I’m not good at being sick at 27. I used to like it when I was six because that would mean I can drink that orange-flavored juice, have the room I shared with my sister all to myself, and Mom would be by my bedside every hour monitoring my condition.
But I don’t like it now. I am not a fan of being the damsel-in-distress: weak and helpless. Especially not in a home with two precocious, er, precious babies who can drain the energy of the Universe’s most enthusiastic person.
I am thinking how it would be if I was sick and my Mom was with me. I will be getting a sponge bath for sure. She does that every time I am sick; even during the times when I turned into an egotistical career woman, who thought she was capable of doing everything. Mom would always cook utan bisaya (vegetable soup) and she would force me to finish a big bowl because “it will help you recover fast.” Then, she would give me a massage. Not as good as the therapist who come to my Cebu apartment twice a week, but Mom’s touch can heal every ache and wound. She has powers like some good witch in a fantasy book.
I would be drinking the usual medicines (tablets, capsules, syrup), but herbal concoctions would still be there. Gabon leaves boiled in water was a classic. She would scour the neighborhood looking for those leaves when that shrub growing in our yard died from the summer’s heat. And believe it or not, in the village where I spent my teenage years, everybody knows when you’re sick and they pitch in suggestions (if not, herbal medicine recommendations) to treat the disease faster.
Here in China, Jeff is doing everything he can to make me feel better. The twins are surprisingly “considerate”; they didn’t give me a hard time when I gave them their baths at 2:00 p.m. I am thankful.
I am starting a new family hundreds of miles away from the home country that offered security and stability for the last 26 years of my existence. It was my decision, my choice, my preferrence. I get that. But once in a while – especially in these sick times – a girl like me misses her Mom. I miss the dishes she cooks even though they can be tasteless. I miss her reminders: “take your vitamins and drink your milk.” I miss her contagious laugh. I miss her addiction to soap operas. I miss her hovering presence as I watch romantic-comedy films. I even miss our fights (not that I want them to happen again because they were very explosive).
I guess you can call this a belated Mother’s day entry to tell Maria Elena, my 46-year-old Mom, that I do love her even if I appear to be tough and distant most of the times.
Oh, I think you’re doing the Math now. Yeah, Mom and I are only 19 years apart. I was born August 20, 1986. She was born August 24, 1967. She got pregnant at 18.
Four days after I was born… she turned 19.
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T30WC or The 30-minute Writing Challenge is a writing exercise born out of this blogger’s need to maintain a habit of writing. Subjects of each writing challenge is just about anything but should ONLY be written within 30 minutes.
