UE: Sacrifices of a Mother

A lady who has sacrificed most of her life to raising her family has gracefully aged with time. She looks as if she is in her late thirties, of course, a woman as beautiful as her is able to defy the passing of time. As usual, she was standing in the kitchen with one hand on her hips and the other clutching a pair of tongs. The soft sizzling of oil and aroma of fried chicken floats to the living room where I stood. I walk to the kitchen and watch her cook like I had as a kid. Her curtain-long black hair is twisted into a bun on top of her head, bobbing as she hums the tune I know by heart. She seems to be the same woman who raised me, but something was definitely different about her.

A second glance was all it took for me to realize how much she has aged. Silver strands edges its way out of the shiny black threatening to expose her true age. Her face, once smooth, is now wrinkled. Her features are more prominent as if she was a skilled masterpiece of Donatello. Those chocolate-brown eyes use to glimmer with pride for her children's achievements, now seem tired more than anything. But the smile plastered on her face contrasts her eyes. It was the smile of bravery, a soldier ready for war, reassuring me that she is doing just fine. Her clothes matches that of a woman decades older. She never wears anything fancy, usually sporting plain blue denim jeans, along with an ancient floral designed button-up polo. And she never sprays on perfume. She had the scent of lemon and fabric softener for as long as I could remember.

I notice her hands were rougher than sand paper as she sets a plate of food on the table in front of me. Once again, the past comes flooding back to me. Delicious, appetizing food set right in front of me, yet I refuse to eat until I get what I want. I sat there for two hours refusing a good meal-fried chicken with rice and veggies-wanting something my parents couldn't afford. I wanted a blue with yellow stripped remote controlled toy car. Ashamed, I stuffed down everything until you could see your own reflection on the plate. Only then I was able to look at my mother.

She was already dozing off on the white leather couch, breathing out soft sighs. Under the florescent light of the living room, she seems more fragile and vulnerable. You wouldn't know it from her tiny frame that she has given birth to six children, all more than ten years ago; that she struggled day and night to get her family through the tough situation. The dark circles under her eyes contrasting her ghostly complexion gave away her age.

I wonder whether this was the life she planned out when she was young. Whether she regrets any decisions she made, or thinks about what-ifs. Because if I had to sacrifice all that she has, I would dread waking up. Before I leave for school, I lay a blanket on top of her body as she once had done for me every night as a toddler; our roles reversed.