I pricked up my ears the second I
heard another choking from the room. Hurriedly, I went inside, my eyes
immediately glued on the woman reclined on a wooden sofa and looked even
gaunter than the last time I saw her. She was emitting a series of whimpers, almost
sounding undetected as if not to take an alarmist’s view. Those, however, were
accompanied by her barking that echoed in the four walls of the room.
The violent coughing was followed by
another. Two more, and then it abruptly stopped. I patted her back, with benign
hope of offering consolation.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to
conjure a weak smile despite the struggle evident on her eyelids drooping. I
could only smile back, hoping it could efface her misery.
As I watched her slumber, I couldn’t
help but feel the crushing weight in my heart. Often times, I have failed to
blur the line between the senile gloom that hovered over her head and the
infirmity that caused her body to grow frailer. At the height of the pandemic,
she was one of those who happened to experience the tragedy befallen unto them;
thus, I knew it was the latter that greatly oppressed her. The early years
marked by her strong disposition seemed to crumble on the moment she was
infected by the virus.
Then, the night wore on just like
this, of running my fingers on her fine lines, attempting to trace whatever
could be remained from the decades of tending me – if there was even a hint of
joy or just pure sadness from the years that passed by.
With a background in teaching, it
was not a surprise how she carried this authoritative air everywhere she
walked. Intimidating posture and sprucely dressed, these were the words one
could get from her students when attempting to describe her. My mother drowned
in that folly — of validating herself through the compliments of others. I, on
the other hand, had not been excluded from this project of keeping up
appearances.
𝘋𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘋𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘞𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦. 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘭. 𝘖𝘩, 𝘺��𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴? 𝘋𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦? 𝘑𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦? 𝘋𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.
Always do better.
Those words nearly resided in my
mind as a sort of mantra. However, there was a particular phrase that truly
lingered.
I could still remember the stifling
heat aggravating the uneasiness felt inside the covered court. Students and
teachers were flocked in clusters; the look of excitement and anxiety both
present on their faces. Though I found it hard to ascertain whether it was a
Math or a Science quiz bee, I knew she was there beside me, to give support or
mere pressure I couldn’t tell. As a ten-year-old girl being presented to an
event she never had a mental image of before, the initial reaction was to be
scared.
Sensing my suppressed trembling, she
nudged me and shot a sideways glance. “I hate quitters,” she said in a low and
serious tone as if anticipating what I would say.
𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘴.
My mom didn’t want me to become one.
After the event, I bagged a gold
medal for the school. She was, of course, beaming with such delight at the new
prize I gave her. From that day on, I had learned how to stifle my emotions.
The years of acquiescence paid off in the end: I won awards, excelled in class,
achieved high honors – everything she could ask for. It was for myself, I said,
but I knew it was to not behold the dismay in her countenance that drove me to
succeed.
If I were asked whether I bore a
grudge against her and her stern principles, my answer would always be ‘no’. At
some point in my life, perhaps, I grew to sulk over the forced smiles and
sleepless nights, but maybe my mother did those out of concern, of making sure
I was spick and span.
I sighed.
I was duping myself again. Deep
inside my heart, I knew what compelled us to be perfect was her feeling of
inferiority — it was never for me.
As I caressed the pallor of her
hollow cheeks, I was taken aback when I noticed her heavy breathing as if
someone was pounding her chest; everything except the torso remained constant
in feigned tranquility. I first balked at the scene happening in front of me,
then, the next thing I knew, I was screaming at my father or whoever was
present in the house at that moment.
It went on as fast as a TV show
preview played in an instant with no rewind button – I had no time to come to
grips with everything except the slow wagging of my father’s head and the tears
that dribbled down his cheek after.
Now, as she lay quietly in bed, her
mouth bore a smile again as if enveloped with the Reaper’s solace. I smiled
too, albeit with a heavy heart of not being able to tell her that quitting was
not always for losers, and her surrender in this fight never changed the way I
saw her — a victor.
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