I'm writing this on a bus which, mile by mile, is taking me far away from you. Excuse the overdramatics.That's the separation anxiety talking. In my mind, I'm already picturing out the monstrous tantrums you're gona' pull out- the hairs you're going to be pulling, the faces you're going to slap, the food you're going to toss. In truth, you're probably going to have a milder fit than what I pictured out you having. You will whine at the fact that you will not have a breast ready at your convenience. And will be even more aware of that fact at bedtime when you've already realized I'm gone. Other times, your world will go on revolving.
Mine will not.
You see, mothers like to think they're needed. That's why there will always be that niggling guilt chewing at their consciences everytime they leave, even for just a day. We are afraid that when we're gone you might need us for some reason, and we won't be there. Or worse, that in our absence you discover you didn't need us that much in the first place after all.
When you reach pre-school, sit near the windows, will you? No doubt I shall be one of those nail-biting slobs on the panes, crying a river, lost like a lovelorn puppy. Don't be embarrassed.
I like writing with movement, I discover. I wish for my thoughts to mirror its pace- fast and flowing- and it surprisingly does.
I sit cramped between a rickety old man who doses off on the window ledge and a mother carrying her child. I miss you already.
Kiddo,
The bus conductor is making it his private commitment to make me as comfortable as possible. I do not want comfort. That's not the point of riding public transportation with its rickety wooden slats and a plastic bag covering its holes. Too many times we privatize our world so we can keep others out. We have individual cars or taxis or drive-thrus. Are we really that afraid of interacting with people? That isn't what I want, so I take the bus whenever I can.
What I find more surprising though is why people look at me and instantly assume I can't take any form of discomfort. Is it because I look awkward sitting here notebook and jacket in hand? Is it because I stick like a sore thumb? And not in the cute, quirky kind of way but more in the 'Help! The World is a scary place. I don't want to handle it.' department.
Why?
In all respects of self-examination which isn't that effective to begin with, I ask this.People say I'm a woman child. But really more of child. How baffling to say that especially since I've had you. Doesn't that make me grown up?
It does not.
Dear Portia,
The sea is making me think in verses, in cut lines, in symbolisms and ampersands.
Here's one for you:
Slice through her skin
and it remains untethered
Dive through her vessels
and she treats you like mere cell
Pierce through her coral bones
and it refuses you nourishment
The only way to kill her
is to go for the heart
and that is where she lives immortal
because no one will ever know
where the heart of the sea is
You are the sea, little girl. You are stronger than you imagine. And I did not leave you behind. I brought you with me.
Dear Portia,
It's amazing how strong our power of adaption is. Just barely 3 hours in the city, I find myself painting my nails red, shaving my legs and plucking my eyebrows. Who says these things should be? Did the city give us memorandum that says Stop! No unshaved, unplucked, ungroomed probinsyanas allowed? No. But adaption did.
Kiddo,
It's 1:00 AM here. And I'm back at the house listening to Stephen Speaks and The Weepies crooning about how 'there are so many people searching for what we found'.
I've lived here all my life and yet today it doesn't feel like a coming home. Maybe because home is where you are. It probably always will be.
♥,
Mom
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