Memories we’d shared, they’d now, become, significant, because of getting older, translated…
Thinking Back, Maybe, it’s a Kind of Scams that My Mother Did to Me………
The Game We’d Played Before Goodbye
Back when I was seven or eight, every morning at 6:30, my mother would get me up, to brush my teeth and wash my face, and as I’d still have the smallest amount of sleepiness in me, she’d started, making breakfasts. After I’m washed up, I’d, walked into the living room, there was, a prepared, breakfast-for-two on the tables in the living room, with a glass of Ovaltine sweetened with condensed milk, and my mother was, already finishing up her half of her toast with eggs. I was truly in awe at my mother’s stamina, can get up early every single morn, to handle all of these, small affairs.
After breakfast, my mother and I would leave the house at the same time, because we lived, in Shuiling, the countryside of Yunlin, not very close to the school, and there wasn’t any means of transportation I could take, so the only means of transportation was my mother’s motorcycle. The temperature was slightly colder in the early mornings, she’d put a thin coat on, and I’d placed my arms around her, my hands, into her coat pocket, and I’d, hugged onto her all the way to school.
The red old motorcycle had that ticking sound as we rode along, passed through paddies after paddies, and patches of land………my mother’s clothes became sharply contrasted to the fields that we drove by, that was, a paint-stained factory uniform, there were patches of indigo on the orange, like the watercolors, splashed onto the canvas, I’d leaned against her, and smelled this light scent of aroma, and, dozed off, on her back.
My mother would ask me using her mother tongue, “Do you love mom?”, and I’d answered, “Sure!”, she’d continued asking, “Really?”, and, I’d affirmed, “Of course!”
This was, a game my mother used to play, before we’d said goodbye, I’d never, paid it much mind, until I grew up, and thought back, and realized, that this, was ritualistic. And, only after this ritual was, completed, would my mother ride her motorcycle, with ease, to her workplace to work. From my elementary to my middle school years, we’d continued this ritual, day, after day, after day.
The Q&A
Thinking back, this may have been, how my mother “scammed” me. In order to scam the “I love you” out of me, she’d turned the words into everyday usage, to con me to say these words that’ll, soothed her mind. As I got older, I’d realized, how hard it was, to say “I love you”, and “You love me”; I’d never said it to my father in Chinese. But, each and every time as mom and I were parting, I’d said it in Thai to her. Using the precisions to speak Chinese, it’d, set up a boundary for myself, and, I was afraid to get out of my comfort zone, I’d not said love in any way, feared that I may embarrass myself. I’d understood, that those words had this powerful way about them, feared, that once they slipped from my tongue, I can’t take them back again, and I’d needed to take the responsibilities, especially those words that hurt, those words with the feelings attached. And still, because of transferring from Thai to Chinese, Chinese to Thai, the frames crumbled down all of a sudden, from my interactions with friends, I’d found, that those inexpressible emotions, through speech, action, or other means, had new meanings, it’d, carried my mother’s anxiousness, as well as her love too.
Perhaps, I’d, over-interpreted it, I’d once guessed at, is this sort of anxiety from “separation”? As I got out of school in the elementary years, if my mother was late for ten, twenty minutes, my imagination would run wild, thought about the chances of how after my mother leaves me, that we might not ever get to see one another again? Could something have happened to mom in the time we’re apart? I’d imagined several possibilities, looked into the distance, mumbled, “How come mom’s not here yet?, but every time, I’d, worried in excess, because in the end, there would always be the headlights of her mo-ped, slowly, coming up from the far end of the streets.
After I’d started going to school away from my hometown, every Friday, I’d packed up my bags, gotten on that overcrowded bus, rode, from Chiayi to Beigang. In the hour-long bus ride, there was the mixture of aromas, everybody on the bus, was fighting, for the limited air to breathe, only those who had window seats got to enjoy the breezes. The overcrowded bus was like squeezing dry a wet towel, squeezed out the space, and, bumped around all the way, to Beigang.
I got off the bus, and my mother was, sitting on her motorcycle, she’d placed my heavy bag onto the front, asked, “Do you miss mom?”, in her own tongue, I’d replied, “Surely I had!”, in her tongue too, “Really?”, she’d prod further, “Sure!”, I guess, that only though this sort of a Q&A, we would, complete the process of meeting back up again after parting ways.
So, maybe, this, would be the mother’s way of not missing her home too much, because she’s not from Taiwan, and, she’d taught her child, to interact with her using her own tongue, which, I’m thinking, somehow, lessens her nostalgia of being homesick………