4th Mother's Day

Four years ago, I hesitated to give my mom her annual Mother’s Day letter, oblivious that it would be her last. During her funeral, I gave her the letter she never had the chance to read. I cannot even depend on my memories as it consistently fail to remember what were the words written in that letter which hindered me from letting those words be known.

I constantly wrote letters for my mother to cover the guilt and remorse that resides in me; I transferred it into scribbles. I wrote her poems of a child crying herself to sleep whenever she listened to lullabies her mom used to sing, and how the bed for two felt like shallow galaxies after she left. I performed countless of times about my gradual hatred for the rain as it reminded me of the drizzles in the windowpane of our car when we headed back home to look for my mom’s after-death investment records. It reminded me of how the rain expressed its sympathies as I tried so hard to conceal my loneliness. I wrote about the letters from my younger years which my mom had kept throughout the years. I wrote about how I broke my consistency of reminding her how much I love her when my words failed to reach her weeks before her death. It was through words that I expressed my envy of girls my age eating their favorite dish cooked by their mothers. I sulked in my room and restrained myself to let out a loud weep while writing my frustrations during Mother’s day. Every time I write her letters, I imagined her reading every word I had written. I am no longer a believer of faith and spirits and unproven beings, but if they were real, then hope indeed is a dangerous thing.

Writing became my remedy to ease the pain I was feeling for years; to transform my tears into memoirs; to redeem myself as I cling to my remorse—my guilt is inevitable like it was buried with her deep beneath the earth.

I thought I was just writing to relive my memories with her. I thought that these words are only remarks of emotions to console myself. I spent years believing that I wrote for diversions but it was more than that. I have realized that I wrote for redemption. I wrote for survival.

I know that the time will not arrive for me to receive a reply from my mom. But it doesn’t matter. I will continue to write to someone whose response remains uncertain. And it’s okay. I will still write. I will always will.