Mama

The first word I ever said was Mama. I obviously don’t remember this, but Mama told me about it. She was in the kitchen; I was playing on the living room floor. She couldn’t see me, nor did she want to, worried that if she averted her eyes for even a second the milk would boil over, but I was close enough that she could hear my babbling.

“mmgg…mMammaa”

The milk did end up boiling over and took a while to remove Mama reported.

My first memory was also Mama. I remember that one well. I remember the clear skies and sunshine, ironically pleasant for what I remember to be a nightmare. The back-garden accident, my terrible fall from the climbing frame leaving me with a grave injury. A grazed knee. Looking back, it was small cut, no bigger than pound coin, but I cried as though I’d crushed my leg. She fixed it, Mama did, with a healing kiss.

“My brave girl! Come now dear, brave girls don’t cry, they’re strong! You’re strong, aren’t you?” She whispered.

I nodded as I wiped my tears, hushed by her spell, wanting to live up to her expectations, to be a brave girl. I remember looking up to Mama’s smiling face, just her scent was enough to calm me. I remember thinking she was amazing, everything I wanted to be and more. I wanted to be a brave girl, a brave girl like Mama.

Later that month I started school. It was awful. The one person I knew, my guardian, my friend ripped away from me, propelled into uncertainty. I cried the first day she dropped me off. I thought this was it, I would never see my Mama again. I could see her eye’s gleaming, her eyelashes a dam against the tears. That made me cry more. 5 minutes later she was gone. The only person I knew in the world, gone. She came back at the end of the day.

We soon learned to live without each other, even if it was just for a few hours. Broke our symbiosis. I found new friends and learnt to fight my own battles, or so I thought. I knew if I could just get through the day I could see her again. I found small comforts and ways to remember Mama; eating the packed lunch she made for me, crusts cut off my sandwiches, painting a picture for her in art lesson. I was eased knowing she would be there, at the end of the day, waiting, smiling with open arms. I would try so very hard to remember every single detail at school so I could go back to tell Mama. I would recollect who pushed in the dinner queue, who got to clean the blackboard, who was it that day in tag and she would listen intently as if I was disclosing the secrets of the universe. Mama slowly learnt how to be a part of my new world too, she made friends and joined in activities. We grew together. I began to enjoy school and I loved that this new world included Mama. Mama came to all my school plays, spent hours making my costume. I didn’t look like all the other children on the stage, but I was happy because Mama made my costume and I wanted to be just like her.

A few years later I went to high school. Déjà vu. New place, new people, new setting and no Mama. I learnt quicker this time, made new friends and found my place in this new life. Mama didn’t. I kept pace with the rush of this realm. New knowledge, new opportunities and new social interactions. I found my passion and others who shared this passion. I learnt about thriving and success. I hadn’t experienced this before, success. I began experiencing new emotions. I tried to explain these new feelings to Mama. Being so connected to a group of people, belonging yet understanding I was so much better than them. Mama didn’t seem happy for me. Mama told me my new emotions were pride, she told me to be weary and learn to be humble or my pride would manifest into arrogance. Mama didn’t understand. I felt bad but found comfort in knowing that she didn’t intend it that way, she just didn’t understand this new world. How could she, she couldn’t tell a violin from a cello or the difference between the music of a clarinet and a flute. I stopped finding comfort in Mama. Instead, I looked for it in the place I had found for myself, where people understood me and my music. Mama tried to keep up, but she got lost, didn’t understand the map of this world. It was written in song, but she was deaf. Her heart was shut. I decided she would never understand and no second of this thrilling experience could be wasted teaching her. Mama became a passer-by in my life. She didn’t understand me, and I didn’t want her to. I didn’t tell her about my friends, I didn’t invite her to my performances. I spent the few hours we together waiting until we weren’t.

Then came music college. I was eager to finally be free, put miles of distance between me and my empty home. I didn’t choose the life I was given but I knew I could shape my future. I waved goodbye to Mama at the station. I sat alone on the carriage; silence in my mind with only the sound of music dancing around my memories. I watched her from the window, my head resting against the side. I hadn’t noticed how she’d changed. Her hair whiter and her eyes duller, her smile rarer.

Déjà vu. My new life was better than I’d dreamt. I was once again, surrounded by my own kind. I thrived musically and grew within myself. I became independent, met a boy in orchestra. I learnt that I didn’t need her, didn’t need anyone but myself and my ambition. I noticed the little things, the crusts on bread, unfolded laundry, pain of burning my hand on the stove. Funny that. Me and the boy from orchestra sat next to each other in practice. We both played the violin, music binding us together, harmonising. He was older than I was, his maturity and brown eyes charming. Soon we began spending more time together outside of orchestra. A few months later we confessed our love, daydreamed of marriage and a new life together after this one. I almost began counting the years left here. That dream was interrupted by another accident.

At the time of the accident I thought of Mama. I struggled to recollect her from memory. As I wept on my bathroom floor, vomiting and in pain I wished for her, wished she would come and kiss the growth inside my stomach away, calm my fears with her scent, tell me it was a nightmare, that in a few months’ time someone wouldn’t be calling me Mama.  The silence was no longer pleasant, it was deafening but my memories eased my mind and everything was clear. I finally understood that it was never her who was lost, who didn’t understand, it was me. 2 hours later I was knocking on her door. She opened the door and smiled, her scent calmed me. Déjà vu. There she was. The lady from the back garden.

“Mama.”