Of course, it is after many years we regret our time with our loved ones. We underappreciate, take advantage of and relinquish our familial ties, while they are alive. I have seen this with many and resolved not to follow suit. In reviewing my relationship with my mother, I did just that. I neglected her and concentrated on me; without one word of disapproval. She was the only person in the world who got me and never used it against me and I never took the time to admit it to her.
The enigma that is my mother.
My protector. My buffer.
Heaven is truly at her feet.
Her lap was my pillow.
Her smile was my treat.
In 1973, we travelled to Pakistan. I was only three and my sister was fours months when we travelled back to the homeland with my father. I do not remember much of this trip but can only speculate with pictures and stories recounted by my father's family.
I hated taking baths. The water was cold during the winter months and it took long to heat. My mother would chase me in her inlaws home to clean the dirt I accumulated playing in the dusty streets. Her health had suffered after two quick deliveries and the another one on the way. My aunt beseeched her to sit down and proceeded to grab me and throw me in the cold, dark bathroom for a rubdown. I would cry and scream for my mother. I remember seeing her face in the window, trying to calm me down but she was not allowed to come near me. She soothed me from a distance. My aunt told me many years later that I asked everyone to call me Cinderella during that trip and I tried to understand why. Stripped naked and forced to be bathed by my evil aunts was the only thing I could conjure up for reference.
The enigma that is my mother.
My fairy godmother.
Her ever-looming smile
Bathing me with warm caresses.
Many years later, as a young adult, I looked down at her sleeping body, wrapped from head to toes in white muslin cloth, and she reminded me of a nun. Pure, forgiving and non-judgemental.
Her face was peaceful and I rained over her with tears of gratitude and appreciation.
While I write about my childhood, my mother is at the forefront. She has shaped me and humbled to accept all that is good and all that is bad.
The enigma that is my mother.
Where are you now?
