I have not only seen, but also heard of folks whining about what hurts the most. I have seen grown men clutching onto the sleeves of their scrotums; ferociously frustrated, they’d want to obliterate their ball sacks. I have seen tears spewing from their eyes, stomach grumbling, veins vexing, as they punch on walls, then wail to let the anguish out. Occasionally, I do not bulge, nor crucify them on a self pitied plate. They say, “losing the one you love to someone else hurts”. I chuckle at the thought. That loving someone who doesn’t love you back, hurts too. Dismally I shake my head. I have seen children of fickle minds crying, calling onto their mom, “mommy please wake up… mommy please… wake up…”. I have heard their hearts wreckingly beat, incessantly calling out clutching on to the gathers of their mom’s cloths, trying to open her lids, “mommy please wake up”. I have seen them turn to their dad with eyes weary of unknown tears, “daddy, why won’t mommy wake? what’s wrong with mommy?” I gulp from a glass of whiskey, and inhale tobacco from my cigar.
I do know, what hurts the other might not hurt the other. Our experiences are not the same. True, but weighing them on the same scale, what hurts the most? You don’t know, do you? I bet your mind has just raced off to times you got hurt, trying to figure out, what is it that hurt you the most. How about, to lose someone that you’ve never had, does that hurt too? That’s my tale. That’s my story. But then again how can you lose someone you’ve never met, someone you’ve never had, only to realize that that person had been inside of you all that while. That you never had to look for that person anywhere else but in your reflection?
So when Margaret turned to bid me goodbye the same day we met, when she was taken away from me, I felt some sort of rekindled hope. Too many questions were left unanswered. Even though she left my wounds more scarred than the way she found them, not for one minute I’ll curse knowing of her existence. The tinniest of hours I spent with her, my flesh healed, even though the entire ordeal was drastically brutal, as needles tore through stitch by stitch, I smiled through the pain. I saw her. Even in the darkest of hours, in the dying embers of the breath that we presumably shared for the first time, it never occurred that it would be the last time. I saw her struggling to smile back at me, which comfortably was heartwarming. I saw her. The resemblance that coalesced our faces. We were one. I stared at my own reflection in her face. I felt lost no more. I felt at home.
She knew it was me, It had to be. No doubt we had the same DNA, no proof was needed. She saw it in my face. To have her call me her own. To see that she was my cradle. To possibly rush towards her embrace, and hug her. For her to hold my supple face on her brittle hands, saying, “it’s you… it’s really you..”. It was the first time to ever see her face, I was afraid. I Stood right in front of the woman who, moments from then on would proclaim that she’s my biological mother. Beside her bed, staring at her lips shaking, hands trembling, tears looming in her eyes, I stared at the strange woman whom every auspices of my bones made me feel an utmost desire that I’ve known her all my entire life, yet I didn’t. Not knowing what to say or what not to say. I broke down emotionally inside not to show any empathy nor pity. To ask her genuinely why she couldn’t have me in the first place. To have her mother me in the dying embers, what she could’ve done 23 years ago.
Was I not worthy enough of a mother when I came from her womb? But I needed a mother, some sense of belonging, so I hugged her. “Its me… it’s really me…”. I told her, holding her. “You’ve really grown.” She kept on saying, “you look exactly like him”. “Him? Who was him? My brother? I have a brother?” I asked her. “No, your father, he’s long gone before I had you.” “Then why didn’t you keep me? Why didn’t you raise me? Do you know what I’ve gone through when you chickened out on me??”. I could’ve kept on going, but her tears couldn’t let me. I could’ve kept on seeking for answers, but her fragile frame wouldn’t let me, as she coughed in spasms. She laid back on her bed. We spent a greater part of afternoon listening to her speak, even though she had slurred speech. She had spent weeks in the hospital. Been on chemotherapy for 3 years now. Saying she had some sort of malignant tumor, I was so high I didn’t understand. Time flipped so fast, I told her about me, the happy me. She insisted that she wanted to hear of the sadder me. She said sorry, I didn’t buy it. Finally she sunk into her bed, holding my hand, saying, “glad I found you at last. Glad I found you.”
When Margaret turned to bid me goodbye the same day we met, I felt some sort of rekindled hope, only for those hope to avert me in an instant, like I wasn’t even worthy of it. Thats who I have always been. An outcast. Knowing Margaret for a few hours we spent together, made a difference in my life, even though it left me permanently charred. It gave me a sense of belonging too. I was not an orphan, like I was made to believe.
As she was laying there listening to me, I told her about the orphanages I grew up in. The hustles, the rumbles, the despair, and the last resort. She smiled, because at that point she had me. I had her as our fingers trimmed together.
As she was gasping her last breaths, repeatedly saying, “glad I finally found you my child.”
I was afraid.
“Don’t want to lose you when I just found you…”
She still laid there mutely. Breathing slow.
“Mommy don’t leave me… please…”
She just sighed as her grip tighten on my hands. I rose to hold her head in my arms.
“Please, just one more day, please mommy…. wake…”
It was strange those words coming out of my lips. “Mommy please…” I didn’t care if she hasn’t been a part of me for the past 23 years. I needed her to be in my life now.
She took a deep sigh. Her grip loosened. She let go.
“Mommy. ..”
“Mommy. ..”
I was like a kid in need of a mother. Even though it was her peace to take, I was glad she heard me call her my mom. The first time the word ever came from my lips. It was beautiful. Excitingly sad. I didn’t know what to feel. Losing someone who I just met, or loosing a mother I never knew existed. Should I be bitter for the lost times? For abandonment maybe?? I stare at my own reflection in the mirror, and I see her in me. I see her.
****
As written by Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
A Heart_Art_Poetics productions
Leave a comment