I DREAMT of you last night. We were in a theme park. Seemed like Disneyland. Strange. We’ve never been there together. I didn’t actually see you in my dream. But I knew you were there.
Achi (eldest sister) says you no longer want to come along with us for the rest of the day. She says you’re tired of all the walking. You want to go off on your own and just meet up with us later.
It’s been a while since I dreamt of you, Ma. But not a day goes by when I don’t think of you. Last night, I was thinking about how happy and proud you must be that Achi is launching a YouTube channel.
You were always so proud of us and all our achievements. No feat was ever too small for you to cheer or celebrate. You provided the perfect balance to Papa’s parenting style more apt for boot camps where no error is ever too small not to call out or castigate.
I can’t recall a single moment in my life when you were too busy to listen to us or to do something for us. And yet, you weren’t a full-time homemaker. You were managing the business along with Papa.
But in what world can birthing and raising six children ever be called a part-time job? Housing a baby for nine months, disfiguring one’s body, risking one’s life in the process — how many men give credit to the women who make such sacrifice?
You used to tell me, Ma, that if men were tasked with childbirth, there would be no children.
And yet, the precarious process of pushing a baby out into this world is the easy part. Raising a child to be a sensible, emotionally stable and morally upright adult is the hard part. And the hardest part? Worrying for the rest of your life.
You used to tell me when I was a child that because you didn’t marry young, you fervently prayed to live a long life so that when it was time for you to go, we would all be old enough to be on our own.
I was old enough. I was 54 when you left. But I still didn’t want you to go.
But you had worried enough in your life — you deserved to rest. Enormous lifelong challenges through 62 years of marriage, six children and two grandchildren. And yet, at the end of your life, you uttered not a word of complaint. You thanked God for all the blessings He granted you and asked Him only for safe passage.
It is an extraordinary gift to have you for a mother and it will be to my eternal regret that I never realized it till you were gone.
I was so angry with Achi. “Are you mad? How are we ever going to find her in this park? Why did you let her go?” I wailed. We searched for you — long and hard, Ma, but we never found you.
Not a day goes by when I don’t tell myself how lucky I am to have you as my mother. I only wish I could have told you this when you were still around. May your love sustain me, Ma, till I see you again.