beans and memories

It's been a few night's now that she's been appearing again in the reruns of an old life in my dreams. In that restless space, she is always the comforting presence; the gentle hand that stays my fears; the beloved familiar that turns sleep to home. More and more often, I see her face in the mirror though I do not recognise it. My mother.

"My twin, my sister, my lost love,

I carry you in me like an embryo

as once you carried me."*

Today is her death anniversary. I should be writing something new, but I am stuck in the eye of a mind-hurricane. I know now that it's not only because it's her anniversary again that I've been dreaming of her; it is precisely because of the chaos in my head that my heart calls out for her. A Buddhist monk tells of how a mother comforted her child by saying, "Whenever you miss me, look into your hand, and you will see me immediately."

And so, an old memory, my hand...here rehashed.

 Saturday noon, a few years back. I was ensconced in my pillows with a really funny book and cans in my ears. I had shut down my lap top because the news of that poor old woman found floating in our reclamation area stirred dark, heavy emotions in my heart which I knew would be dangerous to dig up. I was confident I had quite become the master at turning off and on such pesky stuff as emotions in this here place. So there I was, fairly content--alternating between laughing out loud at the hilarious parts in my novel and singing along lustily with whatever happened to be playing in my earplugs.

And then I came upon a part in the book about beans. The heroine was picking fresh beans. And just as if it happened only a few days ago, a memory of me and my sister picking beans from my Nanay's garden flashed vividly in my mind's eye. The picture was very clear--Nanay in flared jeans giving us a plastic bowl each where we could put the beans, and giving instructions which kind to pick. The vines were all over our front fence then. She had grown a vegetable garden when we were kids and she wasn't sick yet. There were string beans, palea, onions, okra, and tomatoes (I remember surreptitiously snatching and eating one raw! ).

The image of my mother when she was much younger than I am now formed and settled suddenly and sharply in my mind. Long straight hair, lovely legs, stern look, sweet smell, red lipstick, teacher's uniform. She used to sew our dresses for us...always an identical pair for me and my sister. My favorite was that lavender one she made for my 6th birthday. On its bodice, she had embroidered in colorful threads pretty adjectives about me. She drew, too. And wrote acrostics and poems and prayers very well. When I was a little girl, I thought there was nothing that my mother couldn't do. And couldn't be. She could dance, she could sing, she was very fair-skinned and I thought smugly that no other kid's mother was as pretty as she was.

What had it been like for her? Did I give her as much joy as Shani is giving me now simply by existing? What did she really want in life? Did she ever regret she wasn't born in an age where moms and kids hug? What would she have done if she were me? And... wherever she is now, does she miss me like I suddenly and painfully miss her? Does she still have memories?

Memories are tricky things. They always catch us totally unaware and defenseless. I didn't even know I had them still. Once the memories started, I knew I was a goner. So I just let go. That beautiful dress I loved was gone even before I reached high school; the garden, the drawings, the scribbles... all gone (except for that prayer she had me memorize which i still say now, unconsciously, before I go to sleep). They've all been discarded carelessly or left behind naturally as time passed and changes happened. We never thought to keep them because we honestly had no way of knowing what we will value and miss by the time we take our mom's place in the mirror.

A whole lifetime of memories between mothers and daughters aren't made up of hearts and flowers; they're more like the stuff that melt and shatter hearts at the same time. I didn't dissect why I dwelt on them now of all days and here of all places. I just swam and bathed in those memories and was truly thankful I still have them.

I realized then that nobody is really too old or too smart or too tough that they don't long for their mothers when they're not okay.


*"My Mother's Body" by Marge Piercy