90

My mother would have been 90 years old today and if she were alive, we would be out on the town, going out for a sushi lunch buffet, or hunting down a fried chicken dinner in her favourite restaurant, and perhaps even sneak in a high tea somewhere. How I wish that everything I am writing in this blog entry could have been said in person. And yet, here I am, alone with my memories, sending out whispers of love to the universe in the hope that they reach her.

If I could turn back time or step through a magic portal to feel her arms around me one more time, I would move heaven and earth for it to happen. I would give anything to hear her voice again, with that tender reassurance that everything will be fine with my world, we just have to pray and then order a pizza.

Our love language was food, and she expressed that in every way she could for as long as I can remember, not just with me, but with everyone she encountered. My packed lunches when I was a child were not quite Bento box level, but she made sure my sandwiches were in a container and not wrapped in foil or cling wrap, so that the bread remained fresh. She filled my thermos with homemade juice, and there was always some form of dessert included, whether it was sliced fruit or a baked goodie. She went out of her way because I couldn’t be bothered to have breakfast before school, and she worried. When I moved away for university to live in a dorm, I went home over the weekends for the ubiquitous laundry and to raid her pantry. Every Sunday night she sent me off with packed lunches and dinners to be stored in the common fridge, along with a plethora of snacks to share with my roommate.

Her motto was “If you leave my house hungry, it’s your fault”, an expression she claims her father passed down. It took me years to figure this out, and even longer to realise that I grew up to be just like her. We cook to gather people around the table, to share love and laughter, and to unite in prayer. The depth of her love was manifested in the effort she put in the little things, and it went over and beyond a mere throwing of ingredients into the pan. Mommy’s cooking was anything but gourmet, but it was always 100% comfort food, a hug on a plate if you can imagine that. It didn’t matter if it was a grilled cheese sandwich or a full-blown traditional festive meal, she had a way of making sure that it reached the depth of your soul, enough to make you smile before leaving the table.

No matter what country we lived in while growing up, there was never a day that I didn’t spend time with her after school at the kitchen table sharing soul food and unburdening my day. She didn’t drive, so our day-to-day relationship was firmly anchored in the house, something that I unconsciously replicated with my daughter. Even when I got older and only saw Mommy whenever she flew in or I flew home for a visit, in our hearts we knew that the first thing we had to do was sit at the kitchen table and talk.

Mommy was a nurse, but beyond the medical aspect, she made sure she always nursed my soul and healed my wounds, at least those she knew of. Sometimes all I needed was to hold her hand, or hear her laugh.

My mother,
My very first soul sister,
My eternal guardian angel.

I procrastinated writing this entry so long because I just couldn’t come to terms with the notion of honouring her in writing rather than in person. I must have started this at least five times, and I am still itching to pick up the phone and call her, or wishing that I could get up and walk out of my office to find her in the kitchen pottering around. Alas, it does me no good to dwell on something that can never be, so I borrow the words of John O’Donohue once more:

For an occasion of celebration

Now is the time to free the heart,
Let all intentions and worries stop,
Free the joy inside the self,
Awaken to the wonder of your life.

Open your eyes and see the friends
Those hearts recognise your face as kin,
those whose kindness is watchful and near,
Encouraging you to live everything here.

See the gifts the years have given,
Things your effort could never earn,
The health to enjoy who you want to be
And the mind to mirror mystery.

– John O’Donohue, from Benedictus

Happy Birthday Mommy.
Wub Wub

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Related entries:

• 88
• Lurking In The Shadows (aka 50 Shades of Diva)
• Her Hands
• Letter To An Angel

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Today’s blog entry on The Esoteric Frog:

Feng Shui Tips: Don’t Eat At Your Desk