What matters
love
There is a perk
The saddest lines
To my mother
Cliches of all cliches, of course I just had to make a mothers’ day post. Hahaha.
A lot of people repeatedly say that I look like my mother. But that’s probably the only thing we have in common. She’s a math person, I am not. She’s neat and tidy, I am not. She does not trust cabs, I can practically run a franchise. We have almost absolutely nothing in common.
I take a lot after my dad, from the positives to the negatives. I think that’s why my mother and I are pretty close. It was because of my dad. Much like a thief hating the existence of another thief, she makes sure that my father and I understand each other, at the risk of me misunderstanding her. Which is often the case. It’s not ideal, but I think she knew that being the only daughter, my relationship with my father has to be built on rock solid foundation.
And that is her. I don’t think I would have appreciated my father if it weren’t for her constant reminder that it was the both of them that constantly brag about me and my achievements, from the most minute to the biggest. If it weren’t for her, I would have rebelled so much in my youth (but this is not a complete admission that I am fucking old) to the point of self-destruction. I got that from my father; we both have the ability to self-detonate.
But my mother held us together. That one is for sure.
She still hates that I swear. And that my skirts are too short. And my dresses are too frilly. My pants too tight. That I color my hair in the most outrageous shades by her standards (red, copper, blonde). That I shop too much. That I eat out too much.
But if I want a night of pure talking — both gossip and fact — about the future, about the news, basically about anything under the sun, without judgment or prejudice or bias, over a good meal and maybe a movie — definitely over dessert after whatever we do — my default companion will always be my mother.
Happy Mothers’ Day.
Baggage check
This moment also happens to be the saddest moment of my life. My father died on 21 January 2013, 12 days after my birthday. We buried him 6 days later. It wasn’t until his body was buried six feet under did I take a close look at all my relationships: the one I’m with, my friends, my family. It was a rude awakening.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t good to me. It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind. It was the lost wonder, the humility that comes with feeling a sense of disbelief that this person is with you. The how-did-I-get-so-lucky feeling. The I-cannot-believe-she-chose-me feeling. That one went out the window quite a long time ago, and it took three wheelbarrows of dirt and a hole in the ground to make myself finally admit that.
I have lost touch with the oldest of friends so much that if they did not insist on being present in my life, I won’t insist on their presence too. That was one of the worst decisions I’ve made, because at my lowest low, my friends were the first one to rally with me. I am blessed.
My brothers were hesitant to depend on me, but when our father passed, they knew they can count on me for anything. Some may say this kind of dependence should not be present anymore when you get older, but I do not mind. I want my brothers to need me as much as I need them.
I realized too that the strongest person in the room — actually in most rooms — is either my mother or my grandmother. I can only hope to grow up as strong willed as them.
So… I packed my bags for a quick staycation with my best friend and sister Marga, a quick trip to Cebu with another friend, went back to school, worked my butt off, and reclaimed the love that was never lost in the first place.
It is sad that my father cannot see that I am at my happiest, even though work sucks most days and school is hard. Still, my heart has never been happier, more content, and more at home with it belonging to one man and to all the people I have pulled back in my life.
Oh how glorious it is to be loved by the man who wishes to carry your baggage with you. <3
the salt of your skin 