My mother is a woman of so many talents: She paints, she sews; she makes ceramics, works wood, looks after my father, calls her children, takes care of her own elderly mother. She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, despite living daily with an empty well.
Recently I have gotten to speak to her about times past and present. We speak of our travels, of her youth, of leaving my father, of losing her identity, of reclaiming it later on. She is thankful that time has passed and she has endured much. She says that a tired body and an active mind are signs of a life well lived, and I could not agree more.
I did not grow up poor—mom worked hard to feed us and clothe us. But she did, she went through many struggles. So many obstacles that I do worry whether her life could have turned out easier if she had not married my father, had not had us, had moved to another country, had smoked, and drank, and danced, and painted, and done with her life as anyone should: live.
Now she sews, she struggles to put the thread through the machine, her fingers having sewed for years, the muscle memory detailing intricate patterns that new technologies are rendering more and more obsolete. I see an indescribable beauty in her motions, tempered through the times, to many others seemingly clumsy. Scissors and instruments fall, glasses fall out of her face and onto her neck, looks of confusion with overtones of determination go back and forth between the machine and the table and its surroundings. She is not the kind of woman that gives up easily.
I see so much of her in me: The curiosity, the determination, the desire to do nice things for others, the pride to overcome whatever is in front of her, the meekness of feeling inadequate in unfamiliar situations. And I cannot help but wonder if my children will look at me one day, like I look at my mom today and wonder the same: “How come she keeps making things we’ll never wear?”. Just like her own mother, she makes and gives for her heart sings in doing so, her well fills up in hearing the words of gratitude—all of this despite telling herself whatever she makes will not be appreciated, is not in vogue, can be found in stores en masse.
She is beginning to laugh now, at a memory of myself, an embarrassing one at that. We talk about it but she mixes up names and places. She is excited to share something we have all heard one thousand and one times before; and, despite her confusion, despite her corrections, what is all this but a mosaic of possibilities, a mosaic of experiences coming anachronistically to the surface, framed by a desire to connect, to laugh, to love. She has always been a great story-teller, despite what my father used to say.
I know she knows things are becoming more and more opaque for her. I can see a subtle melancholy descending on her gaze. I can tell she still wants more: more stories, more friends, more crafting, more foods, more landscapes, more memories. Death comes for us, inescapably so, but my mind cannot help but wish with great fervor that my mother is granted more time and energy. Nonetheless, her falling gaze tells me she has made peace with whatever comes next.