A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self. And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships.
I remember giving you hand-written letters as a little kid. I remember drawing flowers on them because it was the best thing I could draw, aside from crooked lines and uneven boxes. My notes went up from ‘Your te best mam in th3 hole wurld’ to ‘I love you very very very very much’ with a grand finale of ‘Bring me some milk, please’. Yes, with all those grammatical and spelling errors, and redundant ‘very”s. I was 4 years old, you can’t blame me.
I used to write to you all the time. And I used to be very fond of it. Every word I wrote was carefully written, as if I was being judged by my penmanship. Drawing and coloring was the hardest part. I thought all the words I wrote wont matter as long as I use every color of crayon I own. Resulting to a very ‘artistic’ letter. I remember how I used to send you all these letters 3 times a day, same thoughts and design. Each month, the letters I made got lesser and lesser, until I grew tired of not getting any response.
It’s been about 10 years since I last wrote you a letter. A decent one. Not something I made hurriedly, or forced to. (Like recollection letters)
I’ve never said this to you with great sincerity, but I love you. I love you for the littlest of things. Your corny, worn-out jokes. Your raisin story. Your obsession for plants, that has now finally ended. Your ‘Strike before the iron is hot’ quote. Your constant McDonald’s cravings. I love you because whatever I do, you chose to support me and be positive about it, something I could never do to myself. I love you because you took care of me when I was an infant and helped me grow into a young lady. I love you because you taught me the basics of life, that no mother could have taught better. I love you because you gave up 99.9& of your life for my sister and I, even when it means sacrificing your own happiness. 18 years has passed and you still haven’t grown tired of us, not like me with those letters for you and dad.
Thank you. Thank you for doing all the things you can just to make us happy. Thank you for taking care of us and manage to fit your what-did-you-have-for-dinner? texts into your busy schedule. And taking us to the doctor when we’re sick, or get our tooth taken. Thank you for that shopping day we have once in a while without telling dad. Thank you for sharing your McDo cravings with me. Thank you for allowing us to be a teenager, when 80% of the mothers are locking their kids at 10pm. Thank you for making time for us, even when you don’t even have enough time for yourself. Thank you for keeping up with us. Thank you for not giving up on us.
Mom, you are the greatest mother anyone could ever have, don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. I pity the kids who doesn’t get to have you as their mother, because they would never what it’s like to hug, kiss and call you ‘mom’. I couldn’t even trade you for anything, not even a ship-load of gold. Although, I could trade you for Zac Efron’s eternal love for me. Kidding!
I guess I’m saying all these things to you because time is stingy. I don’t want to say ‘I should have done this, or done that’ in the end. I don’t want to be too late.
This time, I do not expect to receive response from you. The fact that you read every single word in this letter, is enough for me to know you love me too much by sticking up with my mushy-ness.