I find myself sitting in a multitude of lectures, fighting sleep deprivation and rudeness. I want out. Its been eight hours since I’ve been outside and as cold as it is I long for it.
After a tumultuous year, I (and my mother) get to spend few solitary and peaceful moments together. It’s not that we don’t want to but our personalities clash so heavily and we aren’t very good talkers, always keeping quiet unless our honest truths come out.
Which in our conversations, happens a lot.
Yesterday, she and I walked alone for a while, got along and suddenly I realize, this is the mother I love and adore, who loves and adores me. I’ve missed so many moments of my life being torn up by her and she by me.
Throughout the human life, especially in adolescence, it’s healthy to rebel, and rebel I did. I also knew it would hurt her but at the same time, in order to preserve my sanity I did.
“Mem, how many days left?”
“I’m going to hold onto each of those 86 days and miss you terribly when you’re gone.”
“Regardless of all the fighting?”
“You’re still my baby girl. And you bright this light into this household.”
I didn’t cry then. But I cry recalling these words to anonymously show the world how much I love my mother, and my mother loves me.
Mom, in 86 days I won’t be a child anymore. I’ll be growing up. I’ll always be your youngest and you’ll always be the mother who lay in bed for three months straight after four miscarriages trying to keep me alive in those pivotal few months and watched over helplessly as doctors kept me in an ICU for a week because they thought I was defective because I was born to older parents. You watched me grow in three different continents, always struggling to make the right friends and choices, in the end you are the reason why I made it so far without too many problems.
Closing this horribly sentimental blog post, last night I realized. No matter how hard I try, or seek. I’ll never understand a mothers love and strength until I am a mother myself.
Kimbra “Sally I can see you”
I’ve started a new set of community college classes and both of them required me to talk in public. I’ve written about how I can’t even say things in front of children and whatnot, and I think how my shyness controls me. A friend of mine has been talking extensively as to how I should assert myself, but it just seems impossible.
One of my teachers came up to me today and asked what topics I wanted to look deeper into. It’s a psychology class and one of the topics I chose was shyness.
“Mem, are you shy?”
I nod my head.
“But you can say a lot and be loud when you want to.”
“Yes, but that’s just because I only say something when I know what I’m talking about.”
“I understand, I’m the same way, but I also like teaching. It’s hard sometimes.”
I smile and she walks away and I just can’t get the lyrics from Kimbra’s song out of my head:
“I think I’ve have been here before;
It must have been years or more.
Like the first day I got off of the plane,
No one cared to know of my name.
I think I’ve been here.
Sally I can see you,
I’m not the girl that I used to be.
I’ve grown out of my own muse,
But my heart hasn’t changed.”
But they did care of my name, they have noticed me.
I am looking through some friends Facebook pages. Some of them it’s been over eight years and I’m staring at the screen.
I want to say something
But ten years is forever, they’re on my friends list but we’ve never talked, I’ve always wanted to know, I’ve always wanted to be there with them
My heart breaks when I get to two friends who I was inseparable from in sixth grade. Two boys, back then I was like Arya Stark, I was a young girl, a better fighter than most boys and often questioned as one. We even had a cat episode together. I was one of the boys, and when girls would ask me out they’d protect me.
I was the first to move the next one followed a few months later.
we never got back together
There was a Skype call here and there and we tried, well, I tried. I moved to a new country and was supremely unhappy, whereas the one who stayed wanted to try, as well. The one who moved as well wanted to move on. He wanted to grow up without us. We kept somewhat a tab on each other for years. I was very close to the one who stayed growing up. He listened to me, he tried to help and when I got suspended from the school he listened and didn’t judge. He saw it as my way out of hell.
We continued correspondence and high school came along. I had never heard from the boy who moved ever again except on his birthday when Facebook would tell me where I’d grin and write him something nice and he responded to everybody but me. The other one drifted too and suddenly I became popular at my new school, in my new home home and I forgot them as well.
Soon people remembered me as the girl who hung with the boys, the straight edge who cursed like a sailor but made cookies for everyone hoping they’d feel better. The kind girl with the sharp tongue who came from everywhere and nowhere. They found me and added me on Facebook, scarcely trying to keep a friendship but discussing their private lives publicly online and realize how much they – and I – have changed.
There is no common ground anymore. The years have killed so many of my friendships and made me into a harder person, but a more realistic person. My fingers hover over the keyboard, my brain tries to think of something to write because “happy birthday” will not suffice.
I’ve tried all my life.
I close the window
And tell myself they have the means to reach me, I’m tired of trying only to be pushed away and I won’t treat them like they’ve treated me over the years.
Walking home today in the chilled October weather, I walked past a house that had a lot of meaning to me. A house whose doors were always open and smiling hearts and warm food awaited.
I was a year younger, dressed in confusion. Newly out of the house with an argument behind me, I stumbled in once and fell in love. I felt like I was finally home after eighteen years of searching.
Well, the family left and the house still stands. I stood before it for a long while, thanking it but also regretting that I spent so much time there when really in my stubbornness, I should have been home with my parents. Talking things out, perhaps the situation I came under would have been easier to deal with.
The wind whipped my hair and chilled my cheeks, the door opened and I was almost happy and a little boy came out and I knew it was time for me to leave.
My father and I, mother watching warily from a height above us, sat by the riverfront. I watch as the river swells, laughter rises, and beauty both diminishes and is soon replaced by the nighttime sky.
I wait until the sun sets the world on fire. I let this moment drag.
“Dad, I’ve never learned how to skip stones.”
“What kind of childhood have you had?”
A nomadic one, a cultural one, a confusing one thoughts flow into my head.
“The one you gave me.”
He bends down with his aching knees and has a fist full of rocks in his hands. He puts one into my hand and shows me how to throw it as if I’m still a child.
Moments like this make my mothers heart swell and my father regrets momentarily how much of a normal life I’ve never had. Then he laughs about it and realizes he could never change it. I’m eighteen now, I look and act nothing like a normal eighteen year old and that’s what makes me their child.
I continue to skip rocks until the fires dim out and the world is cold and cool again. I listen to the sounds of splashing in the canoes we rode earlier, the chanting of the temple we visited and although so much joy and beauty existed, I found my most favorite part of the journey was skipping stones along the river bank with my father watching the first ripple, create a second ripple, then a third, to sink into the bottom of the bank.
What was, what is, and what will be.
I’ve always wanted twins, identical, fraternal. Twins are such a blessing to the planet and I’m so intrigued by them and the idea that they (identical) are so similar in genetics, environment, personality. No other being is like them; except their sibling.
Move over uniqueness it’s time for twins!
Inspiration credit: national geographic magazine