Couldn’t stay afloat;
put her head in the oven,
the single mother.
Tag: mother
The Task of Gift-Giving
It’s my mother’s birthday. For weeks leading to today, I wondered what present I should get her. It wasn’t easy figuring it out.
My dad’s birthday falls at the end of the week and I know he’d appreciate the book I got him. He’s always said he wanted it.
My mother, on the other hand, never says what she wants. And so I had no idea. I wanted to gift her with a surprise, but I didn’t want to stick to age-old conventions of wall hangers, posters, or ornaments that collect more dust than memories. I wanted to give her something that she’d use every day, something that would make her smile when she looked at it, and something she’d cherish on a day-to-day basis.
It was a nice thought, but I couldn’t think of any such thing.
I don’t know what my mother likes because she’s never told us what she likes. Even in my earliest memories, my mother’s always been the kitchen figure, with a floured nightgown and butter-covered fingers. Thanks to her I grew up knowing I needed baking powder for baking. Because of her, I developed a passion for artisanal cooking. And she who taught me to treat the kitchen as a place of worship. But everything she ever made in her kitchen was for us. Sure, she’d have a couple pastries, but even when she’s unwell, she’d push her boundaries to make our favourite food.
I didn’t think there ever was anything that’d justify my reverence.
So I asked her, instead. From past experience, I knew she’d only want something for the kitchen or our home. She’s never once wanted anything just for herself.
This year was no different. She asked for a lunch box to pack meals for my dad. I got her that lunch box, chiding her all the way. But then I also got her a pair of soul-comforting soft-soled slippers. Her feet has seen so many bad days, and no one deserves pampering more than mom.
A Walk Down the Memory Lane
Alethea chanced a glance at the large clock on the wall. It was ten AM. She had packed the husband off to work and the kids off to school. She had woken up at 5 am to make sure the kids got solid breakfast. They were going on a field trip that day and had to be at school by 7 am, which was much earlier than the usual 9 am.
As she shuffled around in the kitchen packing some extra sandwiches for the ride and her kids’ friends who couldn’t resist her homemade peanut butter and jelly, Alethea’s husband walked in with red swollen eyes. He had had a rough week at work, and it was disrupting his sleeping patterns. She whipped up another pair of sandwiches for him and tried to coax him into taking the day off. And when that didn’t work out, she resorted to making some soup to soothe him.
After making sure everyone she cared about had had a good morning, Alethea decided to clean up the basement. It had been on the to-do list for far too long now. She and her husband had talked about turning the basement into a smaller recreational room, and he had volunteered to do the cleaning himself. However, given the state of his work pressure, Alethea decided to do it herself. A decision she came to regret soon enough. As soon as she opened the door to the basement, she came up with a sneezing fit.
Once the air around her cleared a bit, she looked around at the mess and slapped herself hard on the head. It had been fifteen years since she and her husband had graduated high school, and yet, she still preserved her old school notebooks and scrap papers. It had seemed important at the time, but now when she looked at them, she wanted nothing more than to kick herself. She spent over an hour sorting out her things from her husband’s. They had both been complete idiots, she told herself over and over again. And when the clock struck ten, she knew she needed a break. She picked up a couple of old notebooks from the pile and went up to the kitchen.
Letting a pot of coffee brew, she sat down at the table and opened one of the notebooks which hadn’t had her touch in over 15 years. The pages had frayed in the corners, and she felt them stiffened by the coffee stains of a lifetime ago. One by one, she turned the pages, unable to recollect why she elected French because she had gone on to teach German. She kept turning the pages, smiling as she looked at the little drawings she had done in the margins. She couldn’t contain herself as she recognised a rude caricature of a teacher she hated in school.
By the time she took a large swig of her black and sugarless coffee, she had reached the end of the notebook. She looked at the scribble on the last page and realised her kids’ notebooks had similar scribblings. No matter how many years passed, some things never change, she mused. And then she noticed something. Sketched in the corner, hidden behind a bunch of meaningless pencil strokes, was something she had revered back then. It was her and James’s names written one below the other and the common letters in both their names scratched off. Next to their names was the word “FLAMES” with all letters but “M” scratched out.
James had died in a car crash the next day.
The Birthday Gift
I regretted my decision on the same day. It was David’s birthday and got him a motorcycle.
I had my reservations, but my husband cajoled me into gifting him the cycle.
After all, David had been asking for a long time. Perhaps he had matured enough by now. Perhaps he could handle himself. Turns out I was wrong. He was much too reckless.
He’s had it for just three days, and he had already crashed into a wall twice. He likes racing with his friends in the neighbourhood, and the poor handlebar was scarred beyond repair.
Mrs. Longstem next door had seen David with his motorcycle and had invited me to tea yesterday just to warn me. He was rash and snapped at anyone who touched his cycle. He had become too possessive, she complained. It was unhealthy, she continued as I tried to pretend the cat litter scattered around her living room didn’t bother me.
I hated that woman. And David! How could he be so irresponsible? If he continued this way, someone might end up hurt.
Just as I sat thinking about him, a biscuit in my hand and tea in front of me, David walked into the living room, his fists clenched, his knuckles white.
He stopped in front of me, “We had a fight. Bill took my motorcycle.”
My four year old looked into my eyes, tears in his.
For Love of Love
Sacrifice —
Sleep.
Desire.
Grandeur.
And glamour.
Palate.
Privilege.
Longing.
And craving.
For —
Moments.
Meltdowns.
And marvels.
The Chaos Within 