Remembering My Mom

Today is the 6th Mother's Day since my mom had left. On August 21, 2000, at 4:20pm she gently, effortlessly breathed her last breath and bid farewell to the world of dust, to us. She didn't seem to be suffering from much pain, and that was wall she hoped for. My mourning of her has long ended although a deep nostalgic feeling still lingers in heart and this sense of heart erosion always magnifies on special occasion like Mother's Day. Recently I read Carmi's post about transience and he talks about how obituaries are such poignant recollections of lives now lost. I realize the spirit of my mother who had passed is survived and remembered forever by me.

The first encounter with death was a blank in my mind, a numbness in my feet. The tears were involuntary self-expression of the emptiness, the helplessness, the hopelessness, and the cruel realization that someone whom I love and who loves me has forever parted with me. I shuddered at the inevitable thought that my memories of her would only fade and eventually consign to the margin of my mind. To keep her alive in me, I nourish memories of her through associations. I listen to her favorite tunes All I Have To Do is Dream, music from The Beattles and watch movie like My Fair Lady. She relished the time when my father took her out to see My Fair Lady where all the lady guests received a complimentary red rose. That was Hong Kong in 1960s. One of the evening gowns she donned for the wedding banquet reminds me of Maggie Cheung in In The Mood For Love.

I realize I have become a living obituary of my mother: I have inherited some of her memories. I gain access to the fragments of the past that was never part of my reality and existence. I agree with Carmi that members of each generation carry traces of who they are and pass them subtly to their children. My grandmother, to whom I am also very close, would have passed on to me memories and histories of the very distant past for which I have no way of accessing and archiving. How do you think I'm savvy of ancient traditions and practices?

Now I don't ever worry my memories of my mom will fade or get lost. As I'm telling my friends her stories my impression of her becomes sharper and brighter. My father reminds me of her and how she like before she became a mother. Pictures of my childhood, the school report cards, my favorite steamed egg, the ironing board, the mahjong table...all represent bits of memories of my mom that have incorporated in me. Above all she has molded and shaped who I am, with sacrifice, love, and faith. I remember the first time she broached me about my sexuality, with such lucid understanding and love. That still brings tears welling up in my eyes. Mom, thank you for teaching me how to love and not to be afraid of being who I am.

I love you mom. I know you can hear me, wherever you are.