I Have Memories That Give Me A Sense Of Nostalgia
Yeah. Like wedding-blues music. Reminds me of when my mom used to sing tragic songs, and I would never understand. I thought somehow classical music just was all that sad. I was repulsed by it. Two decades later, I see the truth, and it breaks my heart.
I think it breaks me further to know I'm not going to be her healer.
She used to be such a beautiful lady. My classmates, their mothers, their friends, would all stop me to tell me how pretty my mum was looking that day, and the next day, and every other day that she came to pick me from school. My mother told me she never thought she's pretty. She would always talk about all these other smart and absolutely breathtaking ladies. And I would just look at her perfect face as she brushed her long, black hair while she told us all these stories. Then she would sing. Sometimes her voice would break. Her eyes would shine. She never cried in front of us, except twice. Once, when her mother passed away, and the other time, when my father didn't take her shopping.
But she never cried when he stopped the car in the middle of the road and ordered her to get out. She never cried when he tried to drag her out of the house to beat her up in the street for everyone to watch. The housekeeper was there too. I remember watching in horror. I would have loved to give him a back-handed slap and a shove to the ground, much like I did fifteen years too late. She never cried when he humiliated her because he felt so insecure due to all her achievements. But all the same, she believed every word he said. Every insult was a fact.
And then suddenly, her hair just...grayed, she gained weight, and her eyes drooped. So did her smile. And she said she wanted to line her children up and shoot them in the head one by one, before shooting herself.
Soon, she became obsessed with collecting...everything. Things that reminded her of her girls' childhoods, things that reminded her of her youth. Things that reminded her of her mother. The clothes, the scent, every thread and every needle, laces and ribbons, she has them all. Her art pieces--her masterpieces--are all rusty. No one ever looked after them. I suggested she trim her hair up to her waist, she refused.
The yellow-rose tree in our garden finally died. And the jasmines just stopped blooming. The pink roses always returned. But as the love died, we had the garden paved in cement, and created walls over walls for each person to stay isolated behind.
My mum hates wedding music. So do I.
I think it breaks me further to know I'm not going to be her healer.
She used to be such a beautiful lady. My classmates, their mothers, their friends, would all stop me to tell me how pretty my mum was looking that day, and the next day, and every other day that she came to pick me from school. My mother told me she never thought she's pretty. She would always talk about all these other smart and absolutely breathtaking ladies. And I would just look at her perfect face as she brushed her long, black hair while she told us all these stories. Then she would sing. Sometimes her voice would break. Her eyes would shine. She never cried in front of us, except twice. Once, when her mother passed away, and the other time, when my father didn't take her shopping.
But she never cried when he stopped the car in the middle of the road and ordered her to get out. She never cried when he tried to drag her out of the house to beat her up in the street for everyone to watch. The housekeeper was there too. I remember watching in horror. I would have loved to give him a back-handed slap and a shove to the ground, much like I did fifteen years too late. She never cried when he humiliated her because he felt so insecure due to all her achievements. But all the same, she believed every word he said. Every insult was a fact.
And then suddenly, her hair just...grayed, she gained weight, and her eyes drooped. So did her smile. And she said she wanted to line her children up and shoot them in the head one by one, before shooting herself.
Soon, she became obsessed with collecting...everything. Things that reminded her of her girls' childhoods, things that reminded her of her youth. Things that reminded her of her mother. The clothes, the scent, every thread and every needle, laces and ribbons, she has them all. Her art pieces--her masterpieces--are all rusty. No one ever looked after them. I suggested she trim her hair up to her waist, she refused.
The yellow-rose tree in our garden finally died. And the jasmines just stopped blooming. The pink roses always returned. But as the love died, we had the garden paved in cement, and created walls over walls for each person to stay isolated behind.
My mum hates wedding music. So do I.
