The past has been on my mind lately. My mom is currently in Toronto with her High School Friends from the Philippines. Annually, a handful of these class of ’79 graduates gather in a breath taking North American city to see amazing places and of course, to see each other. Every time my mom comes back from this trip, she seems hopeful and full of youth, and the worries over work and mortgage escape her. I often wonder what my mom was like before my brother and I were born or even before she was married. Was she this giddy? She has hinted in the past this wild child, a borderline lesbian and a head strong young woman who refused to give in to any of her parents demands. I know that she stood up for what she wanted, worked hard and attained it, which allowed us this wonderful life. I wonder if I could be as brave.
Another one of these episodes occurred recently. Last night, as I sat in a small home office while helping my coach sort through and organize his life in his new apartment, I found an old plastic three ring binder insert. Inside, it held a piece of paper; the crumpled lines showed age. The pictures on it confirmed it further: my coach in full fencing gear at age 16 and another in full military uniform at age 19. It had some Arabic writings on it when translated says “Fencing: Fleuret.” It had stickers as well that read “Fencing is fun,” and “I love Fencing.” I just stared at this musty thing trying my best not to kiss the handsome young man in the picture. I look up now and see a different man, one who’s seen challenges, some disappointments and even heartache; I wish I was alive and could’ve met him then.
Reluctant to snatch it from my adoring hands, he told me to place it down and get back to work. I obediently did so, but not for long, I went back to the pictures. This time my thoughts escaped my mouth, “Someday can I have this?” I got an automatic reply, “no.” “It meant so much to me,” he says; “it reminded him times when life was different.” My mind slowed down the moment and when he reached for the old plastic, his words made so much sense to me.
A song in the radio, perhaps, reminds me of better days. My life is not as bad as other people, but at the same time, it’s not that great. I am a bit happier than I was a year ago but I still wish that things were different and that some things didn’t happen. I still go through the seven stages of grief at times: shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression, the upward turn, the reconstruction and hope, but I dare not dwell on them for that will be the death of me. But as I look at my mom and my coach, I wonder will it get worse for me? I look back at pictures of the younger versions of myself. Times were different then. I wish that I can remain a child forever, ever so pure, ever so free.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment