By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

This morning, I think of my mother. I think of the times that I have decided, on so many occasions I have taken personal decisions without much regard for her own sentiments. Not that it is intentional to disregard it, but worse, it seemed sometimes that in my own personal space, her opinions were just part of a whole decision-making process that involved so many other considerations affecting a larger belief framework, where feelings are subsumed for the larger good.

She never told me how she felt, but I could discern from her eyes, from the way she stood up and walked away, that her silence was not of submission, but an attempt to understand and accept a decision I have already made before consultation. It was clear to her that I was not seeking advice or permission, but informing her of the action already taken or about to be made. A silence existed between us, from which emotions flowed freely without being articulated, including pain, which lasted longer, but eventually transforming itself into acceptance, mostly on her part.

Despite the many challenges in our relationship, my mother is the one I run to, to nurse a broken heart. She knows, whether you tell her or not, and there was no need to talk about it. She would cook my favorite meals, massage my back, gather my favorite flowers on a vase, and humor me with stories of people we both find interesting. She knows exactly when I needed to be alone, and just watch the water flowing in the creek, or listen to a bird sing, sit in the darkness of dawn, wait for the sunrise, or speak to the moon. More than this, it was her presence, her reassuring love, her silence, that sewed the broken into the unity of the fibre of a new beginning.

When she passed away, I chanced upon her diary, which she wrote in pad papers, and letters to my father and my other siblings, which I gathered from the files, in an attempt to write about our family history. There, in no uncertain terms, is the articulation of her silence, raw emotions spilling out, straining to understand the kind of decisions I made and the path I have chosen for myself.

Because some things have always been given unconditionally, we assume that it will be there always. Well, they do last, but they become less palpable, with the passing of those who give us the caring. We sometimes think it is our entitlement to have a mother’s love, or a friend’s love, without regard as to what it takes to give it, unmindful of the personal impact of our own acts or lack of it.

 

Breath of love

when I see you cutting flowers

arranging them on a tall vase

I see your hands gather broken pieces

of me

 

I feel you, too, in the caress

of the breeze, on my face

gently wiping away, the tears

 

in your silence, thoughts rearrange

patterns emerge, fibers weave

a knowing smile

 

a river runs through me

the sky lives inside my eyes

and I breathe, with you

the breath of distant stars

from the agony

of an old, felled tree

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