I MISS Mama.
More so during this election season. She was one to campaign for her favorite candidate and talk about him to everyone and anyone who would care to listen.
She would’ve been the first in the village to hang his tarp from the awning in front of the house, and would’ve likely given away campaign materials to all the neighbors.
This would also be the time Mama would be glued to the TV news, either clapping her hands and cheering for her candidate, or booing his rivals and ridiculing their statements she doesn’t agree with.
Mama was always excited to vote in any election, but even more so during the presidential elections. She always prized her right to vote, nagging lazy gadabouts and bums do their civic and national duty.
The last time she was able to vote was during the presidential elections in 2010. She was already 82 years old then, but she didn’t let her advanced years stop her from casting her ballot.
So I know she would’ve loved to be around right now to vote. It was the one chance she could have a say in how the nation is run. And she would tell us not to waste this great opportunity. So, on May 9, please go out and vote.
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May 8 will be the second Mother’s Day without Mama. Out last Mother’s Day together was in 2014; she was already laid up in the hospital, frail and resigned to her fate, dealing with frequent bouts of pain in her body.
I had a special box of chocolates for her, and I greeted her “Happy Mother’s Day!”, but she was too weak to respond or even acknowledge the day. On most days, she kept her eyes shut, like she was sleeping. But I think she was quietly trying to pray the pain away.
It was clear she had given up. Her body trapped her usually jolly and infectious spirit. She wanted Papa to take her already, though every time I asked her, she said she didn’t see Papa in her dreams or even in the room. We all tried to cheer her up, encouraging her to get better so she could go shopping again—her favorite activity—but she just felt miserable.
You see, Mama was never the type who just stayed home to knit sweaters for her children or grandkids. She was always active, moving about, clearing out the ref of old neglected food, or supervising the maid in removing and giving away stuff we no longer used from the attic.
If not that, Mama would be out shopping with her best friend. I would often wake up to a note she had left near the dining area saying she was going to Greenhills, and that—of course—after lunch she would be playing mahjong with her amigas.
So I know being in the hospital really sucked for her. To her, it was a prison, but in her weakened state, she knew she had to contend with it just the same, and, in the end, surrender to whatever fate waited her.
But Mama left us with a gazillion of memories.
She and I have never had an easy relationship—and what mother and daughter does? But two years after her passing, I can no longer recall with certainty what caused our fights and heated exchanges. There are flickers of unpleasant memories, yes, but they seem to have lost the intensity of the moment, and don’t seem as important anymore.
These days, all I remember is how she loved to laugh. She enjoyed a good joke, and her laughter would ring out loudly, making others around smile.
I remember how she would always bring home some food from wherever she came from. Not just for her but for me, and also for her grandson who had lived with us then.
I remember how she would watch every CSI episode, whether it was the New York, Las Vegas, or Miami variety, and never mind if these were replays. She loved her CSI men and women, cleverly solving every heinous crime that came their way. (She was also a fan of NCIS: Los Angeles. I joked once that she identified with Hetty, the diminutive boss of the crew. Mama was only 4’11”.)
When I was still very young, she already taught me save money so I could buy the things I wanted. And so, yes, I would pinch pennies so I could buy the newest Little Twin Stars ponytail holders, or a small pink chest of drawers to hide my little-girl trinkets.
Mama also drilled in my head that it was important to finish my college studies so I could get a good job, and not rely on men to support me.
And I enjoyed her stories from World War II. She was just 11 or 12 years old then and she had to take care of two younger cousins during evacuations. She would tell us how she defied the Japanese troops in her block, refusing to bow to them. There was even a story of a Japanese officer, trained in the US, who always gave her chocolates. But this never once made her hate the Japanese any less.
She almost died, Mama said. She and her cousins faced the guns of the Japanese troops, but when news broke out that American soldiers were already in Manila liberating the city, the Japanese scattered, and Mama and her cousins fled for lives.
I assume that having faced the barrel of a gun and managing to escape death made a huge impact on Mama’s life. So she made most of her time, going out parties, meeting up with friends, talking to boys, working in squatters areas (in her heels!) to help those less fortunate, then getting married and having us, her four children. Mama lived a full long life. And I would be so lucky to have even half of the wisdom she gained in her years.