Just a question, Mamma

On Sunday the world celebrated Mother8217;s Day and my thoughts as always went to you. You were always there for me. To show the way. To si...

On Sunday the world celebrated Mother8217;s Day and my thoughts as always went to you. You were always there for me. To show the way. To sift the right from wrong. At every important corner of my life you stood a gentle tranquil figure, and I never knew what I had in you, till I started losing you.

As I watch tea dribble down your chin and a vacant expression film your eyes, my heart grows still. Everyone grows old, they tell me. Accept the situation and move on. But daughters are not made of such stern stuff. Their hearts are fragile; they only put on a harsh exterior to survive trying times. She is not a chunk of bottled history to be shelved as a part of my past, I tell my husband.

History is something to be proud of, he comforts me. Let her be at peace. Think of her as she used to be. Or the hours she laboured over you will be wasted. Spread her wisdom. Scatter her message.

As I watch you wizen and wither, hour after hour, day after day, bending more and more towards the earth that beckons you, my pain grows intense. The burden of your age and all that goes with it wears me down. Then strangely, as some form of self-defence the ache slowly turns to anger. You no longer talk to me, you do not listen when I talk. You fall asleep in the middle of things.

I argue with you interminably, trying to make you understand 8212; though it is often beyond you now, and I know it. But I cannot give up on you. With a daughter8217;s unfailing resilience, I persist. When you entered this non-existence, I do not know. What I do know is that it crept upon us slowly, unobtrusively, and has left me feeling cheated.

My greatest grief today is that in your slow deterioration, I do not hold your hand and gently take you through whatever time you have left. That instead of helping you to close the final chapters of your life quietly, I try to keep alive the mother I had always known, and in so doing, dishevel your spirit and confuse your already confused mind, denying you the peace, and the space which you so richly deserve. A part of me is dying with you, Mamma. I am snuffing these years out of my own life, and will carry the trauma beyond your grave.

Tell me, Mamma, will you, for the last time, sift out only the best in our relationship for me to remember you by? Will you erase, with your magic wand, these last years of pain and share with me that peace and tranquillity which was so much a part of you? Will you help me, Mamma, in your own quiet way, to let go? Will you, Mamma?