My mother would walk three blocks from our old house in Sampaloc to take us to the kindergarten we attend. She would explain to us what being jobless means, and that with every story, an "i love you". I remember her sitting in her green shirt, outside the room and she told us she can not bring us to school anymore because she already got another job, at 35 and beaming.
At 37, my mother had told me a story. A story which will instantly break a heart, especially that of an eight year old. It broke mine. My mother was not being selfish nor reckless when she told me that story. She felt, that I would understand. I did. In that fateful ride, somewhere in Quirino Avenue in Novaliches, long ago in 1994, I understood, although faintly, that how my mother loves us.
I write this, and I am 24. I saw a photo of my mother on a boat, smiling. Her hair disheveled, her smile earnest. Sitting beside my father, it must have been love. All those letters, all those court cases, all those pills and medicine, I just think of it as my mother in love with my father.
On her last breath, she was looking for my father. My mother was 54 when she left us. 54years old, 88 lbs, 5ft.
I am writing this because all that I have left of my mother are intangible things. Photographs, memories in Baguio, in Vigan, of a woman laughing about mangoes, a woman explaining to a client about the importance of this and that in a case, a woman in her beige dress sitting in front of a fan during the summer heat, the smell of her hair, the small dots on her face, her bony hands.
I wish there was more, I wish there were more photos. I wish there were even videos of my mother. I wish, I wish. I wish I could just crawl under the bed, the way I did when I was eight, she would pull me out, and tell me there is a bowl of rice and sugar on the table. She would hold my hand and smile.
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