“Dear Mama, don’t you know how much I love you? Dear Mama, place no one above you”
An early cold morning, I woke up with a song from Tupac with a fully determined thought, “another day, another blessing!” The weather was humid and the morning promised a perfect day. Hearing from a song in the background, I couldn’t help to smile at a thought that this has been my morning routine for the past few months, waking up with this song played by our landlady’s old cassette. Suddenly I reminisce a distinct voice that used to wake me up; a tingling, loud and sharpest voice that makes me annoy every morning, my mother’s.
I sigh as my thoughts came down to my mother, of how she used to do mornings with me. I could only stare at her back at the washing sink, who busied herself washing plates and drying them. No one’s different about her. She seems to be enjoying her own company, so vibrant to see. Nothing in this world could seem to break the unbearable character that she has .
My mom had only one normal foot, that would stand her and the other one was clawed, shaped like a ball. I thought that it’s normal and it’s not something to be worried about. There was this one day during elementary school. I remember that it was Parent’s/ Recognition Day, my mom came. All of my classmates, parents and teachers were there and the moment my mom approached to me, there was this questioning eyes pointing at me, anticipating to ask me for their curiosity. I look at them in disbelief, questioning myself if there’s something wrong, something different.
In an African proverbs saying, “It takes a village to raise a child”. But in the case of my mother, she carried me with one-foot standing one at a time. It makes no sense of how does she do this everyday, working and taking care for all of us. For every breathe, every ounce of sweat she gushed, I’ve never seen her complaining, tired and giving-up. In every painful calluses and bruises she have earned because of her disability, she held my hand and stood for me. She gave all for me and left nothing with her. She almost lost her life giving birth to me but she held a little hope that she will lived to witness her little bundle of joy.
One morning, I woke up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I saw in the glimpse of my tired eyelids that she was crying so quietly as if she was afraid that she might wake me. I hurried against her and tried to look at her and then she turned away. There was something pinching at me in the corner of my heart. My mother is such a strong person and can handle everything! I dismissed the moment that I’ve witnessed earlier and instead asked my mother, “Mama, why is your foot like that? Why is it different from the other?” My mother faced me with a puffy eyes, keen and simply nodded her head along with her sweetest smile, “because I am special and you too is special.” My mother, a woman defined in a beautiful manifestation of Baroque painting; rich in obra, deep, unique and classic. Notwithstanding her disability, she breaks stereotypes of her own common that for the past years feed her with prejudices. Her unconditional love towards me differs of how she appeared disproportionaly. I never feel like she is incomplete and different, the love I received is whole and complete.
I felt someone softly knocking at the door and saying, “Jomelou, alas siete na, wala paka nahuman og kaligo?!” I opened my eyes and heard a familiar voice, it was my roommate.I have been in the shower for one hour. I hurriedly turned off the faucet and jumped out exiting the bathroom. A beam of sunlight enters my room and gets larger as the door opens. Sure, morning “serye” like this is a momentum to reminisce my mother and how things used to happened before.
Luz (Spanish name of light), you bestowed light on my path, countless chance of rays in it that leaks through the blinds of my eyelids. The looming glow is what keeps me forward. My day and future is about to break free with your shining light.
Words by: Jomelou Menorias
FYI 