— a nonfiction by potpourris.
Forlorn Melancholy.
Where all love ends and never to begin.
“To her, one can only be a good mom or a good wife. There’s no in between. Not even both at the same time.”
“And why is that, do you think?”
“You tell me. I’m her daughter, not her mom,” she answered rather bitterly. She sighed, stared at her surroundings in silence, and took a deep breath like she never took one in a while.
We go way back, Helen and I — but I never knew this side of her. I always knew she weren’t close with her mom and I was never bothered to know why. They were very public about it, you see. They wouldn’t mind an audience whenever they needed to lash out towards each other. But this time, it was different.
Helen was always ready to defend her grounds when it comes to her mom, even if she knew she was in the wrong. But this time, she just sat back and let her mom’s rage consumed her in front of everyone. The only words she let out were, “Are you done?”
To which her mother responded with another round of endless shots fired at her little daughter’s soul.
“Why didn’t you fight back this time?” I asked.
“Why do you think? I’m worn out. Every response that I ever had was there to shift her perspective. This time, I just couldn’t think of anything. I just got stuck,” she replied.
She took another cigarette from the pack and offered me her last. She sighed again, inhaled her menthol and let out what I thought was the most beautiful yet most tragic scene I ever witness out of her. Two drop of tears. They were so silent, she didn’t flinch. It is as if those tears simply chose to run free. She took another breath, even deeper than the last one, and swallowed all the smoke while scratching her head. She has all the words ready to go in her head, but she don’t know how to let it out to her mom. And it’s clear from what I see; she’s trying to puzzle it out for me.
“And I’ll never be enough.” She continued. “It was always like this. She’d go above and beyond for my brother, but not for me. Excuses after excuses just waiting there whenever I was next on the list of her priorities so that I could go back down the queue. Not to mention the person she’s become because of her husband. I don’t know her anymore.”
“It’s like living under a roof with a stranger. My brother would kill me if he knew I said all of this, but it’s the truth. I don’t know her but I call her my mom. I’d love to get to know her but at the same time I don’t want to get hurt. It’s silly, and I sound ungrateful, but it’s just how things have always been for the past 6 years.”
She inhaled her half-lit cigarette but this time she held the smoke a little longer. She fidgeted here and there, tapped her finger and played with her hair though nothing is wrong with it. I really wanted to hug her. I really wanted to stop her. I know this isn’t enough for her, but I wanted her to know somehow that parents are just.. parents. They’re this concept that we don’t need to understand thoroughly to be okay. I wanted her to know that yes, she’s going to survive all of this.
She’s going to be okay, and it might not make sense now but she needs to be here. She needs to survive this. There’s this being of herself that she yearns to be — that she often calls for in her sleep, and someday she’ll be just that. But that day wouldn’t come if she’d ever did something to herself. That day wouldn’t come if she decides to give up now. She could be so close to all the opportunities unveiling, but she’s…
Wait. What happened?
She stopped fidgeting all of the sudden. She couldn’t stop shaking her legs when she started her rant but what’s going on now? What is she looking at? She keeps looking at the crowd but I can’t see what she’s seeing. I called her name twice and she wouldn’t budge. I snapped my fingers in front of her and she smiled, this time with more tears streaming down her face.
The crowds started to unfold just as how I hoped her opportunities for a better life would be. Between the seas of strangers walking here and there, I see a mother and her daughter holding hands while sharing a cone of ice cream.
With every brawls, squabble, quarrel and dispute with her mother, Helen let go a little piece of her to die; so she’d feel numb.
But her eyes,
the silence in her eyes,
That sight, that smile,
She couldn’t take it.
I lost her
as she decided to kill
what’s left of her
with her smile.
