My Older, Estranged Reflection

Today’s sunset is so cloudless and nostalgic, when it disappears I fear it will take a piece of me with it that is drenched in her memory. I feel out of sorts sitting here on the veranda without her. She should be sitting beside me right now and asking me to read from the holy book the scripture that her pastor was preaching on Sunday. She would complain how hot the weather is, but still find her sipping on piping hot tea. I would sit on the opposite chair beside her every day and tell her that she had the most beautiful brown eyes.

 To which she would reply, “Your mother has the very same eyes, and you too. You look just like her…She used to love wearing her glasses because she said they make her eyes look as beautiful and big as mine.” she started her everyday story decorated by occasional reminiscent smiles that trapped her and her daughter’s earlier days while freeing her from her Dementia. I hated it when she spoke about mom. But then I realised that it was the only time she remembers who I am and that I am not HER.

With every word she said… it would dawn on her that it is a distant memory but the glee in her eyes would show acceptance.

Oh Nana.

I sit in her rocking chair and envelop myself with what I presume is her scent.

My tears betray me.

A hand touches me on the shoulder, a familiar stranger. She stands beside me looking into space, a wave of consolation sweeps between us. Words that we try to utter now will only woo a second funeral scene.

We walk into the kitchen and continue this trance of monotonous grief-stricken silence. Two cups clink, the hoarse feel of teabags on my fingertips murmur, filling our censored atmosphere. The spoon’s tolling rattles us out of our stupor. She has been clenching Nana’s quilt in her arms, her eyes travel with mine to the corner where between her fingers Nana’s initials were barred.

I pull my gaze away, hand her her tea and walk out as she fiddles with the pots which seem to be taking forever. I want this dinner over and done with. This was Nana’s last wish – that I and her daughter “try” to meet each other halfway. “But I am always waiting for her at the crossroads, Nana. She has never come.”

I wish to yell at her for never calling back, never checking on her mother’s health, never being here for the last ten Christmases, never being here when I had my first period, never being here for me to tell her about the boy in my sixth grade who kissed my cheek after school and… and…

Nana, you taught me forgiveness but how do I forget that I needed my mother even more when I lost my father?

She orphans me while she is still alive, trades me for a heartbreak that she forgets only I can truly understand.

“Let’s say it does happen, where do I start?” “Dinner.” That was the last time I spoke to my Nana and continued to live with Sandra’s mother.

Lo behold, we meet where Death’s labyrinth pilfers our dearest one again. Once more, she finds herself with me… a stranger she birthed.

“Can you come help me with setting the table?” she calls out to me from the dining room.

“I cooked her favourite.” “Yay, please give me more reason to leave this table.” “Don’t say that Lily. What? Did I not cook the lamb stew properly?” “What is this Sandra? There’s nobody here. Stop putting on a show, I’m an adult now. You can’t pacify years of rejection with a meal. We don’t have to do this. It’s okay, I forgive you. Happy?” I get up from my chair heading for the exit. “Since you’re an adult, can you at least behave like one?” she rises from hers too, “I want to explain myself.” “A little too late. You’re back because the person who stood between you and selling this house is dead, you want to salvage what’s left right?” “Lily…” she sharply yells. I shake my head and walk out. She remains hot on my heels to the bedroom, “You picture yourself as the most discerning person ever...” “If you had stayed around a little longer you may have learnt a thing or two from Nana too.” She yanks my arm and I find myself painfully colliding with the wall. “Kill me too. Kill me too, Sandra.” I reprimand myself after shouting in her face. She has Nana’s brown eyes but hers carry so much sadness. She let’s go of my arm quickly and softly says, “I’m so sorry, Lily” as she shamefully walks away. I hear the cutlery clicking downstairs, she is clearing up the dinner table. I go downstairs, avoiding eye-contact I dish up for myself. I feel her eyes on me as I do so, she sits down and follows suit.

I am the only one who stands in a position to mourn. I was the one taking care of her when she was on her deathbed and her daughter was nowhere to be seen.

But why do I feel selfish for thinking like this?

Is it because I am busy trying to plea my pain that I forgot that she has also lost a mother and a husband? Instead of acknowledging our common ground I see her as an adversary. The last rays bury themselves behind the horizon as the night’s darkness paints the sky.

Oh mom…

A mother’s love requires a different bonding, a pinch in the heart when you feel your child is in danger, a bothering restlessness when she is not within your sights. Did you ever feel an irking in you when I called out for you in the bitter nights?

Did space and distance become metaphoric so that my cry can reach your ears?