permission
As soon as I stepped inside the field she was in, I stopped belonging to myself.
I turned to her doll, and she held the puppet strings. Ran here ran there, went up went down, jumped, danced, entertained her, listened to her sad same life story over and over again, how her ex husband treated her, how much she was concerned about her son, how she thought her daughter-in-law would leave her son because she had a better education, how a few house leakage issues made her heart explode, so on and on.
And I, a doll, didn't seem to be anything, or feel, but legs to run, hands to work, a physical body to run errands for her. Suddenly other people – who did delivery, shipping, pick-up, cleaning, wiping the ancestor area, putting the grocery away, bringing plants upstairs, other tasks – disappeared as soon as I appeared.
That was what happened when I met my mother.
I hate it every time she asked "You don't love me, right?" I don't want to stay close to her. Does it mean I don't love her? I don't know. But every time I see a new message whose sender is my mom, my spine collapses, my heart races, shoulders folds to chest... even I live 100 km away.
Few days ago, she texted me with pictures of her foot and toes that were swollen. She said she fell on stairs. It hurt really bad. "Can you come back with me?"
I got chilled.
I called her the next morning. I told her I would come back the following day. Then I booked ticket the day after the following day. I could only sleep a few hours that night. The morning of the trip, I cancelled it.
I went back to sleep. Woke up. Had breakfast. Coffee. Lunch. Two more coffee. Went on a ride. Then I felt a relief inside "Thanks God you cancelled it."
Didn't seem to be about my mom.
It seems to be about the relationship with a little girl.
Who didn't feel she had anyone back there.
Now she has.