I find it funny how mothers seem to know their kids so well to the point where it is as if they are floating inside their minds, inspecting every nitty-gritty part of their brain, memorizing the nook and crannies of their actions.
And my mother is no exception to that deadly trait.
“No more mangoes,” she would say, busily slamming her fingers on her laptop without sparing me a glance as I edged closer to the fridge.
“你要生病了 (You’re getting sick),” she hurriedly rushed to touch my feverish forehead after hearing the suppressed dry cough coming from my mouth.
“You forgot to collect the clothes again, didn’t you?” she asked over the phone with an exasperated sigh.
Growing up, my brothers and I were always under strict scrutiny. My mother believed that you need to be a little firmer when the kids are still young so that when they are older, they will be much more independent and disciplined. While I personally believe in the ‘there is no one size fits all’ formula when it comes to parenting but to my mother’s fortune, all of her children ended up on the right path — her beloved kids went to university, are getting good grades, and most importantly, are still breathing and well. To her, that means she, at least, did her job right.
There was this inside joke in our family that my mother had a secret crystal ball that could grant her these miraculous powers to be attuned to our every step.
Though it can get infuriating at times — having your mother calculate your every move as if it was a game of chess — I’ve grown to find it comforting, especially when I moved out for college. Even when I’m an ocean away, I can feel her leering gaze burning behind the back of my head and that familiar, deep, assertive voice of ‘are you sure’ thrumming in my eardrum whenever I’m about to commit a grave mistake. Aside from guiding me to a trail of sound decisions, it was somewhat a reassurance — a feeling I wished I didn’t take for granted when I was still at home.
When the pandemic hit, I came home. My mother was very happy to welcome me back in her arms. She would cook all the specialty dishes I once told her I really enjoyed and though she would comment on my weight, which had drastically increased when I was studying, she would feed me endlessly with good, warm food. Seeing my mother and being back with her has made me an overall much affable person. There were fewer worries to handle and of course, less tedious chores to do.
However, recently, I feel an overwhelming wave of sadness whenever I see my mother. I’m not one to be observant but I noticed how she has changed so much over the years — wrinkly, weary eyes, gnarled, scalded hands, and the constant fatigue. I used to be shorter than her but now my mother is three to four centimeters away from my height.
The other day, over the dinner table, she complained about the sharp, throbbing pain of her back spine that disrupted her slumber. As a result, she had to sleep with her front body, her face hid deep in her pillow so that her back does not come in contact with the bed.
It is beginning to dawn on me that my mother is getting older. Time is not being kind to her either. I am going to lose her one day and I don’t know how to live with that.
I’m hugging her tight every night before she sleeps. I hug her until my arms can barely reach the other end of her waist. My face squished into her abdomen. A brief two seconds of silence in the air. I don’t dare to say I love you. I feel words would never be enough to express how I really feel.
And I think she knows that because that one night, I accidentally caught a glimmer of sheen glossed over her eyes.
As I said, mothers know their kids well.
