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A fateful summer to remember Mommy by
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filipino globe online edition
I have difficulty placing myself on that day all those years ago
The day she ran away with a statue of the Child Jesus, my cousin Mary Jane
became the kind of person you always remember for her innocence – past
adulthood, motherhood and well into her life.
Yet, all she did was carry an unfinished wooden sculpture and complain how
heavy it was in the labored, jumbled words of a four-year-old who had just
toppled under its weight.
The day she ran away with a statue of the Child Jesus, my cousin Mary Jane
became the kind of person you always remember for her innocence – past
adulthood, motherhood and well into her life.
Yet, all she did was carry an unfinished wooden sculpture and complain how
heavy it was in the labored, jumbled words of a four-year-old who had just
toppled under its weight.
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She moved on,
brought us up
to her fullest
pride, and got
her fair share of
life’s blessings
as her
grandchildren
arrived one
after another
during her
lifetime
brought us up
to her fullest
pride, and got
her fair share of
life’s blessings
as her
grandchildren
arrived one
after another
during her
lifetime
It’s unlikely she remembers any of it. Even I
have difficulty placing myself on that day all
those years ago. I think it was my mother who
had direct knowledge of the mischief, having
picked up both children from the ground.
It may have been an incident not worth writing
home about, except for the people in it and for
its incredible power to connect me to a
cherished past. Because whenever I think of it,
I remember my mother.
She was a schoolteacher and the most
beautiful human being that ever stood before
a class. Behind black-rimmed glasses,
pointed at the sides like that of a mask, her
eyes wore a smile that made you look at her
with fondness.
have difficulty placing myself on that day all
those years ago. I think it was my mother who
had direct knowledge of the mischief, having
picked up both children from the ground.
It may have been an incident not worth writing
home about, except for the people in it and for
its incredible power to connect me to a
cherished past. Because whenever I think of it,
I remember my mother.
She was a schoolteacher and the most
beautiful human being that ever stood before
a class. Behind black-rimmed glasses,
pointed at the sides like that of a mask, her
eyes wore a smile that made you look at her
with fondness.
A slight woman with large feet and slender fingers, she was a strong but
reassuring presence in my third-grade class of giggly, sometimes chaotic
eight-year-olds who would snap to attention at the sound of her voice.
Hers was a kind of hush to my father’s boom. I would wake up to their
whispers as they sipped coffee in the kitchen on countless early mornings. I
thought nothing sounded sweeter than my name being called by either of
them.
They would kiss as she went off to school, dance to their theme song, and
walk the darkened footpath to the pier when my father would leave to return to
work in another part of their world.
My siblings and I were home to feather her nest, but we always knew
something was missing. Yet, none of it showed in the way she went about the
job of raising us without Father half of the time.
When he died in 1983, she lost the other half of it, too.
But she moved on, brought us up to her fullest pride, and got her fair share of
life’s blessings as her grandchildren arrived one after another during her
lifetime.
On April 27, 1999, a day after returning home from her last summer with us in
Hong Kong, she moved further on.
The afternoon we buried her, the air was the kind of hot and steamy it gets
only after a serious burst of sunshine. The funeral procession from home to
church to cemetery was a sea of umbrellas. Under them were familiar faces
and many I had not seen in my life.
Last month, our entire family went home to mark her death anniversary as we
had for most of the nine years she has been gone. I still see her standing
before that third-grade class when I was a skinny kid with the checkered hat,
buttoned-up polo shirt and socks that raced up to the edge of my short pants.
As for Mary Jane, she is a mother herself with growing children and a blissful
life. I rarely see her now and would not recognize her if I bumped into her on
the street.
But I will always remember the little girl who ran away with Jesus. And I will
remember Mom.
reassuring presence in my third-grade class of giggly, sometimes chaotic
eight-year-olds who would snap to attention at the sound of her voice.
Hers was a kind of hush to my father’s boom. I would wake up to their
whispers as they sipped coffee in the kitchen on countless early mornings. I
thought nothing sounded sweeter than my name being called by either of
them.
They would kiss as she went off to school, dance to their theme song, and
walk the darkened footpath to the pier when my father would leave to return to
work in another part of their world.
My siblings and I were home to feather her nest, but we always knew
something was missing. Yet, none of it showed in the way she went about the
job of raising us without Father half of the time.
When he died in 1983, she lost the other half of it, too.
But she moved on, brought us up to her fullest pride, and got her fair share of
life’s blessings as her grandchildren arrived one after another during her
lifetime.
On April 27, 1999, a day after returning home from her last summer with us in
Hong Kong, she moved further on.
The afternoon we buried her, the air was the kind of hot and steamy it gets
only after a serious burst of sunshine. The funeral procession from home to
church to cemetery was a sea of umbrellas. Under them were familiar faces
and many I had not seen in my life.
Last month, our entire family went home to mark her death anniversary as we
had for most of the nine years she has been gone. I still see her standing
before that third-grade class when I was a skinny kid with the checkered hat,
buttoned-up polo shirt and socks that raced up to the edge of my short pants.
As for Mary Jane, she is a mother herself with growing children and a blissful
life. I rarely see her now and would not recognize her if I bumped into her on
the street.
But I will always remember the little girl who ran away with Jesus. And I will
remember Mom.
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