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.
