What could probably be the hardest thing for an only child, or rather, only son? To see his mother age.
More so the likes of me who has spent a considerable amount of my growing up years with her—just the two of us.
What once was an agile body zooming across the kitchen for a cola or a sandwich seemed to have now slowed down considerably, almost hitting the brakes—almost!—had it not been for Korean novellas to which she wakes up every day.
And if you think that was enough, there ought to be softdrinks, junk food, peanuts, potato chips, French fries, three-in-one coffee, and a whole gamut of chichiria within arm’s reach. My 84-year-old Mama loves the pick-and-bite scenario when it comes to her gastronomic delights of choice—small, sweet/salty, and in many ways dangerous.
At 84, my mom has the right to get away with anything—with impunity. I make sure of that.
Mothers are probably the superwomen on the world. Younger, they’re always quick on their feet, and quick to the draw, too. You make a wrong move and it’s either you’re out the door or out of luck because you’re about to be grounded.
But now she chews her food much, much slower but never without finesse. I walk her to the dinner table, my arms gently wrapped ‘round her elbow as I whisk her away to her powder room, and up a restive flight of stairs, wondering if she can take that one more needed step.
And she does take that extra step, boldly, and that extra huff of air into her old, tired lungs, that seemingly final rising of the feet—too brittle to even look at.
But then the morning arrives with her little steps waking the old floorboards of the house, weaker now than two decades ago, but never too flavorless not to say, “Good morning, anak!”
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! From your 60-year-old son. Yes, we are long-lifers. — JPS
