She’s tall, fair and pretty. People sometimes say that if they look really hard, they can find similarities between us. I always feel they’re just saying that to make me feel good. In reality, I look nothing like her. She’s fair, I’m dark. She’s got an oval face, mine is round. Her nose is razor sharp, mine is as blunt as noses can get. She’s got green-grey cat eyes, mine are plain ol’ boring brown. She’s lean, I’m chubby (though that’s one thing I can actually change and am on my way to doing so). She’s tall, and I’m…er, not so tall. Okay, I’m just a teeny bit shorter, but still. As far as looks are concerned, she’s the anti-thesis of me.
But there are similarities in other places. We both share an overwhelming love for music. We sometimes lie in bed late at night, singing bits of songs long forgotten. She plays the violin wonderfully, and I still remember the times I used to sit and listen to her play. I listened so often that I sub-consciously memorized the tunes she’d play, and years later, when one of thee songs was played at a concert, I couldn’t resist jumping up and down in glee, just because I recognized the tune. I had no idea what the words were, I didn’t know anything about the song except for the fact that it was something she used to play very often. I missed her terribly in that instant. Everytime I go for a classical concert these days, I always wish she’s sitting beside me listening, because I know it is exactly the kind of thing she’d enjoy, the kind we’d discuss till late in the nights.
She doesn’t know the names of the latest English pop and rock bands, and can’t catch the lyrics to the songs I make her listen to, but that doesn’t prevent her from encouraging me to keep singing, regardless of what it is I’m singing. She doesn’t know who Phoebe eventually gets married to in Friends, but she makes an effort to sit down and watch a couple of seasons, even when the jokes sometimes fly over her head, just because I talk so much about it. She might not see what I see in Tom Welling (and might even make a couple of statements referring to him as a monkey), but she resists the urge to reach out and vigorously shake/slap me whenever I go into Welling-related trances. She might fall asleep every time she picks up a Harry Potter book to read, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to finish as many pages as she can before she dozes off, simply because she knows how much I like it. She gets mad every so often and yells at me, but that doesn’t stop her from coming up to me later to tell me she’s only doing everything she does for my good. She squirms whenever I get overly huggy and kissy (she calls me me “eeshal” and says she should’ve named me Esha), but that doesn’t stop her from giving me a chirpy “Good night, wuv you!” every night before she goes to sleep.
Yesterday, she could hardly contain her surprise as my brother, sis-in-law and I gifted her with a small hamper of some things she wanted (magnetic whiteboards to stick on the fridge, static brushes, green tea, etc.) and took her out to a nice dinner, followed by a cheesecake dessert (none of which I paid for – I have a lot of people to repay once I start working!). It was simple, it was homely and it was wonderful. Just like her.
I mutter those three words to her very often (more than necessary, she probably thinks – aren’t these things supposed to be taken for granted? Do they need this much reiteration?), but I hardly ever show it. She’s in town for a month of my holidays, and despite being away from her for four months at a stretch, I still manage to get angry with her and pick fights. I want her to leave back for home with good memories and warm thoughts, not worried about whether or not I’ll be able to take care of myself. I’m therefore out on a mission to prove to her that she has nothing to worry about. I don’t think I’m doing a very good job, but I want her to know I’m trying.
And because, in my opinion, it really cannot be said enough…
I love you, Mom. I really, really do.