I have never written about her. And I had never confessed how much I love her.
It was hard scribbling the words that would not fully make sense until I meant them. I know she isn’t a fan of poetries or of love letters and flowers. So here I find myself writing out of rhymes and nosebleed-worthy Shakespearean lines, hoping my number one fan would have something to cut out and keep like the other articles I have written in our school publication.
I will stop writing for her and finally write about her.
I am her boy. Her only son. She gave me birth 2 days before her 23rd birthday. She was young then, but was even younger when she bore my elder sister at 19.
A young mom she was but it never made her less than a mother for us, for me.
I remember how I would go unruly whenever she taught me how to read the simple ABCs. I would throw my tantrums and cry my uneasiness. I was stubborn. No, I am. But she would always show her compassion and understanding, seeing me in the brink of my tears after her sometimes tongue-lashing admonitions. I had never understood why she would always put me to bed at 1 pm and spank me while I run my way out from my siesta. I had never understood why she would always insist in making me swallow the veggies I thought would let me puke my intestines out. I had never understood why she never let me play with the dunes backyard.
I had never understood her being overprotective and her being a mother to me. And I think I’d never fully understand and comprehend how a love of a mother is.
She that had suffered months of nausea while I suck my thumb on her womb never falls to sleep whenever I complain of flu. She that had labored for my birth never let a sole mosquito get near me. She that had took care of me, breastfed me and taught me how to walk already accepted the truth that I’ll be walking away from home someday.
I could not remember anymore how many time have I let her cry. I think I would not be able to reckon. But I’m certain that the times she hurt me were all because of my erroneous acts. Perhaps, being mother makes you miss your own comfort just for your children. That kind of love is something no dictionary could completely and genuinely define.
I would usually imagine what if I was born of a different mother. Then, I would stop imagining because the thought is empty. No good scene comes out. It will be next to impossible.
I could not ask anything from God right now, but make my mother happy. She would not show how proud she is of me but I could feel it. I could see it from her words, bragging to my aunts about my article published in a national paper. I could feel how thrilled she was when I won competitions during high school. I saw her cry while I did my salutatory speech in grade school. And until now, I feel it. The love she has for me did not stop the day she bore another child after me. She loves me, she loves the three of us – even if my elder sister got pregnant at an early age, even if my gender orientation and preference were not something she was happy about, even if my younger sister was a dropout.
She loves us, no matter what. And through this, I would like to convey how blessed I am that she is my mother. I would never repay the things she had sacrificed. And I pray she knows that I love her even if I do not say or show it.
My mother, Maria, was more of a gift to me than I was to her.
I want to make her happy not just for a day. I want to make her happy while I am living.
I would go back to the delivery room where, after long sighs and minutes of pains, motherhood becomes official.
I know I don’t always need a mothers’ day to write about her – the woman who gave me the world and who gave the world me.
For so long as my pen doesn’t run out of ink – even without words of rhymes and poetic lines – for her, I continue to write.
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