They say I have her smile, but I only remember the grimace when she realizes my stupidity. They say I have her eyes, but I only remember the disappointment when she recognizes my insignificance. They say I have her hair, but I only remember the synthetic wig I found in her bedroom after her funeral.
I stayed in that room for months. No tears. No words. No bed. They took away all the furnitures, superstitious that she'd haunt this place and not pass on to the next life. Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. But I stayed just in case. Lying on that cold bamboo floor, holding on to...
I honestly don't even know what...
It was the last place she held me, dare I say, the first place she truly held me. Our previous bedroom in that 200 sq. ft. was shrouded with sadness. There was nothing worth holding on to: the bruises from multiple beatings, the tears from countless scoldings, or the evenings too dark to be recounted. Darkness followed in her steps, leaving behind imprints of secrets and scars.
When we moved to this new house, she brought the darkness with her. But this time, it was different. The darkness was slowly losing its gravity, losing its hold over her heart. Don't get me wrong, the abuse continued. Her shadow remained, but it was frail. In its wake was no longer the shrill of cold terror, but a chill breeze enveloped my body and she held me. On that hard wooden ground, she told me that whatever the future holds, I was going to be ok.
So I stayed in that room for months, trying to be ok. Holding on to her hair, stroking the synthetic as if it was a magic lamp and she was going to reappear. I don't remember her enough to miss her. I definitely don't miss her enough to wish she was still here. I don't want to relive the pain trenched in my soul and the agony seared on my skin. I don't miss her.
I just miss my mom.
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