Only a few days from now will be what used to be one of my favorite days. It would also be when I’d start counting down the days to my own birthday, something mama had always made fun of me for. My mama would be 61, and I’d still be the more excited one between us, because for several years before she died, she had made a tradition of giving ME a present on HER birthday.
Now I do not want to forever be the girl whose mom died and I do want to be able to stop talking about her death. But if anyone is really my friend or if anyone ever really knew me or mama, he will have to allow me to hold on to whatever is left of the best gift God and life have ever given me.
Mama was my happy thought. She still is my happy thought. With much struggle and help from many people, I have made some considerable progress at letting go, and moving on, and believing (without much rational understanding and with all the hope that my broken heart is able to muster) that everything happens for a reason. Not that any reason could ever make me whole again. I’m not sure I am even interested.
A day has yet to pass without me crying and talking to mama as if she could hear me; if the ‘rules’ in the afterlife allowed it, I’m sure mama had been listening. I have yet to make dinner without hoping I could have mama over the phone to ‘talk me through eating alone’. I have not stopped dreading weekends, when I have to go home and not have mama expecting me. I miss getting random treats, just because mama thought ‘it’s cute and I might like it’. I miss mama’s stories, and random musings. I have yet to really enjoy a happy thing or circumstance without wishing I could call mama and share it with her.
I have yet to stop thinking mama has been helping me out in my answered prayers and lucky haps lately.
I have yet to bring myself to delete mama’s phone number.
I have only just started to pray again.
Dreams have been a-plenty lately and mama is in each and every one of them. I’m not sure what to make of them, but I’d like to believe mama knew I was lying when I told her to stop worrying about me if it was already too difficult for her. I’d like to believe mama knows how I’ve always needed her. I’d like to believe mama kept true to her explicit promise of ‘babantayan at aalagaan pa rin kita’. Truth is, I basked in being her daughter. I basked in the comfort and security that came with her love.
I don’t need anyone to cry for or with me. Mama’s death is my tragedy. The story of my life has taken a lonely turn; it doesn’t get rewritten. I’m still a little interested, albeit passive, about how the story turns out; but for now, what gets me by is reading through the past over and over, because there were too many good and happy parts.
Happy birthday, mama.
