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Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday.
I couldn’t read the shaky handwriting and tear stained letter Mama had sent me properly. I know something was wrong just by how she wrote it. She would smack my hand if I ever wrote like that.
I only just got the letter a few days after it was dated. Even though the contents were a mystery to me until I opened it, I had a sinking feeling. Mother’s decline was slow, but apparent. She was not immortal- neither was Mama. All of us knew this, but it didn’t soften the blow.. it only seemed to add to the dread of the inevitable.
I was planning to come back next month. I ended up arriving at the house a week after.
Mama tried to be normal. She asked how my travels were. She asked how my husband was. She asked about my new tailored suit, and the cafe from the Capital City I liked. I know she was just stalling, as I did the same when something came up and I’d really rather not talk about it. But something prevented me from saying so. I just answered her questions, and handed over a box of chocolates. Mama mentioned one, in a letter, that she’d like to try one. So I brought it over a pack of 48 different flavors.
I don’t know why the action seemed to bring her to tears.
Here I stand in front of Mother’s grave
Mama is crying on my shoulders, and I feel her hiccuped breaths stuttering. She tried to be strong, to not be so emotional.
“It’s not very good for you,” I said. “Mother would scold you if she caught you bottling up her feelings again.”
It’s the truth. Mother often criticized Mama for such. Once, I was told the story of how Mama went almost 2 weeks without telling Mother about a rip on her leg, and Mother only found out after Mama's leg nearly crumpled on itself during a fight.
“Your mama yelled so loud, Shakra believed the void had returned,” Mother said. They both laughed about it. I didn’t find the story so amusing. But looking back, while looking at Mother’s grave, I should have been more grateful for such.
So Mama cried. She stained my nice tailored suit with her black tears. I rubbed her shoulders. We stood there, for a moment, taking in the awkward silence of the grave and each other’s comfort.
Despite the circumstances, it was nice. It reminded me of when I was a child, and how Mama would soothe my pains by simply holding me and whispering gentle words. Now, the roles had switched, and I was the one rocking my Mama. Funny how time works, isn’t it?
She asked me,
“And why aren’t you saddened?”
For a beat, I didn’t answer. She sighed a heavy sound, before I spoke again.
“I’ve done my grieving. Long before the thought of Mother dying was even common.”
And we sat in that same silence. It was more peaceful now, with Mother’s crying stifled.
It wasn’t so sad now, I suppose. Heavy, yes. But sad? It became more sentimental. More personal.
“Hornet was an amazing woman.” Mama wipes her tears and looks at me.
I thought back to all the training. I thought back to all the swords, pins, needles and tools. I thought about all those restless nights where I felt worthless to her, her expectations growing all the more impossible as I got older. I thought about my calloused and bloody hands after practice.
Then I thought about all the praise and enthusiasm. I thought about the first duel I won, when Mother gave a sweet as a reward, and I savored it while she looked at me with a controlled curiosity. I thought about the time I surprised her with a parry I learned all on my own, and she laughed a hearty laugh I’ve drawn out many times since. And I thought about all the bandages and care I got after practice.
“She was.” I say back.
To Mama, the world is nice again. And that to me, is when everything is right.