A Mother’s Heart

She yearns and she pines for her daughter’s return
Her safety and her love
A mother gives her all to her little daughter
Dresses her up and cuddles her
When her daughter is a baby,
All she wishes is for her to grow up
So they can talk about life and love and girly stuff
And as the little girl grows up and finds
Her friends among them and boys as well
A mother there she in the back seat dwell
Girlfriends and movie nights and sleepovers too
A daughter is caught up with all in school
The mail in the post she waited for
A shadow of the car trailing away as she goes for a date
Her mother watches from the window pane
‘My little girl has grown’, then says her name
Little whispers of shy words now said but
No longer to her mother
The girl is grown and delights in another
The baby daughter who used to twirl in front
Of the mirror showing mother and daughter
Now stands tall and upright in her gown
As she walks down the isle to her other
The crowd is watching as the father guides her down the path
Happy yet sad to release his daughter
Into the hands of another man
Yet while the father eventually lets go
Her mother is the one whose tears fall silently
A smile breaking into crystal beads
Of love, of memories and of silent joy
She sits in the pew as her daughter glances
Into the eyes of her new found partner
Into the life she will now own, no longer attached to her mother
And as the church bells chime their blessed union,
The bride gathers her train and turns around
She blows her mother a butterfly kiss
Dear mummy you I will dearly miss
But a mother-daughter bond will not fall apart
Nor break because of an added son
But their unity becomes stronger because very soon,
Her daughter becomes a mother too.

Happy Mother’s Day! to all mothers & mothers-to-be : )

Las Pequenos Cosas

It’s the little things I start to realise,
that define the word we sometimes cannot conceptualize
The pen on the table, put away without a second thought;
Scanned documents sent via email;
acknowledged merely with a hasty ‘thanks’
Its the increase in the account;
And the breakfast of pancakes with dulce de leche.

The call in the morning to wake me up
A question, an application
The extended trip, the greater insurance
The walk to the money changer
The smile when seeing me
Hugs and prayers each morning for my safety
It’s the little things, that shout out your steadfast unwavering conviction.

TE QUIERO Mama

La medida del amor..es amar sin medida.

De abuela de Juan. Esto es verdadera.

The measure of love is love without measure.

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The woman who gave me life

Mother’s Day may have become overly commercialized, dissolving any of its significance to something barely in existance, but without it, I think I would, in my practical busy-ness, forget the importance of the role my mother plays.

My mother’s name is Grace, and she is truly a gift of god, though not literally graceful in the dancing sense, but a woman whose love for her children has touched them so. All mothers may display such a love, though there are some that choose to abandon and reject, rather than to embrace and accept. Few people in my life hold the mantle of my saying confidently of them that “I know you love me unconditionally, unshakingly and with all the love you can muster in your heart.” My mama can proudly hold this mantle, although I have never told the words to her.

The woman who gave birth to me had high-blood pressure just weeks before being in labour, which was 2 weeks too early and had to have a caesarian operation. Worried that my tiny frame and puny weight meant that I was unhealthy, she had originally called out to God before going under the knife, and said, “God, whoever you are, help me.” God never fails, and as the world welcomed the baby weighing only 2kg the size of a small kitten, I burst into an extremely loud wail upon the customary spank on my buttocks being held upside down. My mother breathed an awesome sigh of relief, glad that her firstborn was safe and well despite looking smaller than she would have liked. From then on, my mother became a Christian, and she often liked to attribute the early beginnings of her Christian walk with my entrace into the world.

What I remember of my early childhood is all gathered from the yellowed photographs arranged in those cheap popular photoalbums, with some captions under them, sometimes just a labelling of names, sometimes just something cheesy. In my first 2 years, I had those huge longan eyes that looked inproportionate to my round chubby face, smiling alot, and my mother holding my, her beautiful throphy safe in her arms, captured in a time capsule for all to admire. Later on, I had short straight fringe that made my face look even shorter than it was , and I was often not very smiley. But still, my parents, and especially mum was always grinning in the photos, just proud to be my parent. My mother used to tell me the tale of carrying me around in Tampines Park chasing butterflies; the memory I have of it is non-existent, or perhaps faked through having heard the tale often enough.

I was never one to speak openly about my feelings, and with the growing up done mostly at school and with friends playing marco polo in my room or in the courtyard, and later in Orchard playing pool or at Taka and Far East, I grew further and further away from mum, speaking only a few times a day–in the morning when she woke me for school, at dinner time when she was enquire about my day, and at night to say goodnight.  The only other times were when my pocket money was running dry and I needed cash; daddy was a harder option, so I chose to ask mum instead.

There was a period in time that my mum wanted to be my friend, and I brushed her aside, appalled at the idea that someone a generation older wanted to be put as an equal with my precious friends. I think that she must have been very hurt by that, and slowly she stopped prodding. I grew further away with the advent of JC and university, with the activities and excitement of making new friendships in school so much more appealing than staying at home and having a decent conversation with my mum. She became my ATM literally, and other than that, I lacked any proper relationship with her, not including that fact that biologically she had given birth to me. 

Recently, I felt an urgent need to treat her better because more than anything, she deserves my respect and love, for all that she had painstakingly given to me and my siblings. But I felt stuck in a rut– you dont suddenly become close to someone whom you hardly even speak with. When I tried to converse with her, I realised that she was willing to speak, but sometimes I found my attention moving away from what she was speaking, and ended up feeling irritated with myself and her. Sometimes I think my insensitivity is deserving of a slap, because the woman who bore me wanted to communicate with me, but I didnt even seem interested to. Suddenly I realised that there was very little that I knew about her life, except that she loved to read Christian books –she has a whole library of them; she loves to do crossword puzzles; and that she loves homecooked food. What a disappointing daughter I think of myself, and as I tried to imagine a day in her life, I start feeling angry that I have not properly cherished the time we had before. Of course there will still be the future, but at 22 years old, roughly a quarter of my lifespan, I am ashamed to say I barely know my mother.

I do know that she loves me and my siblings with all the love in her heart; that she is very protective of us, yet is afraid to be too pushy for fear that we reject her totally. The woman who places her hand gently on our foreheads each morning to bless us with a prayer is the same woman that holds us when we cry, and I know that she totally deserves so much more than we are currently giving her.

From today on, I want to be a better daughter. I want u to know that I love you, mummy.