Mama ran out of water from her pail and went back to fetch more water from the well. Sweat was dripping from her forehead to the bridge of her nose down to the trail of her neck. For a moment, she stood queenly like a goddess, the mess of her hair a crown of selfless and glorious motherhood. Her worn out saya shines iridescent against the early morning sun. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, and in a nanosecond, she gazed at her roses with a pensive look.
I want to to know where her deep thoughts led her. Maybe in the middle of her greeneries 10 years ago where the mess of gravel and sand, the dirt of the earth and grass and the noise of her three annoying toddlers disheveled her orderly garden. Maybe she was walking through Memory Lane where her beloved dogs, with all their pillage of bones where barking noisily every time she comes home from the market with her plunder of fish meal and leftover food. Or maybe, she was just standing still, waiting for Papa to fill up her pail with water.
I want to run with open arms and hug her. I want to stay warm and secure against her frail arms. But I didn’t. Mama is not the type to show her emotions publicly. She was shy and is still very timid despite her age, wisdom, and experience. I know because I share the same sentiments with her.
I heard the whoosh of water and noticed it spilling over her bucket. With longing steps, I closed our distance and smiled lovingly at her. I carried her pail of water and bring it to her garden of greeneries. It is neatly landscaped and her collection of greens were lofty and well variegated. Their lush were filled with a pillage of beautiful memories and I carefully splash each pot with clean and fresh cool water to relieve their thirst for reminiscence.
At last, I emptied her pail. I cut one stem of bloom from the rose pot, hand it over to Mama who was satisfied with her noble work and said to her, “Thank you for the good upbringing, Mama. I am watered well. I love you.”
Nah, I can’t resist to hug her.