IF there is one achievement for my mother in her age of 91 years, as she gets a bit closer to our furtive sense of eternity, it is her visitors. She has many of them in the early morning. They come in clans, even when the clock strikes midnight. At first, I thought, they come without invitation. But constantly listening to my mother has convinced me that she calls them, and invites them to be with her.
They are all dead people.
Most of the time, she talks with them about events of the past. My mother’s memory of names is fascinating. She recognizes them instantly, calling them by their nicknames.
One evening, my mother was talking as if she was looking at a list of names. The visitors that night all belonged to one family line. As I listened, I started making a headcount of those people I had not seen for a long time. By my mother’s reckoning, I concluded that they must be all dead by now.
One night, my mother was calling a man by his honorific “Mr.” He must be one of the principals or supervisors she worked for as a public school teacher.
With some visitors, she speaks about going for a walk. With other callers, she stretches out her old, thin arms as if handing out a tiny parcel or box. My mother likes asking all of her visitors to carry a letter for her. I get this sense the visitors refuse to get this letter because the next morning, when she wakes up, my mother looks agitated. She would then talk of letters and documents.
I believe—we believe—one of these visitors, or two of them, will finally take that letter she has been asking people to deliver somewhere, or guide her out her room forever.
We do not know who it will be. They say, the parents who have long passed on renew their duties and come back to take a son or daughter away from this valley of tears.
Several times, my mother has called on the names of her “Mama” and “Papa”. During these times, I would enter her room and look at her in deep dialogue with someone. My eyes move from her and to those points in space where I feel my grandparents are. This visit would end with my mother asking where her “Mama” and “Papa” are going.
A rare visit from my father happened this week. Upon hearing my mother say “Joe” and, later “Joker’ (a term of endearment she uses for my father), I went surging into her room. Instead of just being a mere witness to the visit, I stated talking to my father. “Papa, are you taking Mama with you, now?” But as usual, the visit ended with my mother calling out as if someone had just turned his back and started leaving.
There is never sadness or a hint of regret when the visitors leave my mother. I think, my mother knows a different protocol rules these visits.
I wonder who will guide my mother out of her sleeplessness and weakening. I have stopped giving her medicine to calm her down, let her have a good sleep, and when she wakes up, make her feel good.
Mama, from now on, will take care of her body and soul. She has the power to summon other souls, and she does not need those pills meant for the body.
One morning, she was trying to summon me to her room. “I am not going there,” I shouted from the living room, “Your room is already crowded with visitors.”
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Image credits: Jimbo Albano