I thought of my old mother, who surrounded herself with music and flowers. Everything she touched she seemed to with a peculiar intent. Perhaps it was ultimately her gratitude at being able to touch with deliberation rather than because of necessity. Or perhaps it was inevitably the deterioration of her mind that skewed her intentions and judgements. A senile soul reaching out for meaning and understanding that would never be found. She would never have touched my face like that. She would never have stroked my cheek and looked at me with such joy. She was, in the end, broken.
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I never really loved my mother. I know that’s a horrendous thing for a son to say. But I didn’t. It’s not to say I never tried to or never wanted to, I just never felt it. And I’m not one to lie. It’s not like I hated her and wanted to smack her repeatedly across the head with a frying pan; although I did dream that once. I just never felt anything for her. She was just a woman that I lived with. Sian. A woman in a dress making me dinner and washing my clothes. Nothing more.
I could never bring myself to call her mum. She was just Sian to me. And I know she never really loved me. And that’s ok. It’s not a crime. It is not compulsory for a mother to love a son. It’s not a law or legacy. It’s just something that usually happens, which didn’t. And that’s ok. I can live with that.
I remember holding her hand crossing the road to school as a child. She looked down at me and I felt instantly cold, like I was alone, holding hands with a ghost. I just looked back at her and we held each others gaze in an uncomfortable yet natural stare. The way her eyes saddened as they met mine upset me, but as I grew older I realised the meaning behind the sadness. I never recall her smiling. Maybe I looked like him. Everyday a reminder of a man she once loved and broke her heart. Those same eyes looking back at her. The eyes that watched her cry as she was thrown against a wall. The eyes that laughed and ridiculed her. The eyes that looked at other women and wandered astray. The eyes that loved her and left without saying goodbye. My eyes, my mouth, my face were his.
As I entered my teens she barely even looked at me. She would talk to me through the bedroom door and then sit in the other room when I came down for dinner. She thought I didn’t notice. She thought I wouldn’t know what was going on in her head. But I wasn’t a little boy anymore. As I grew up so did my understanding. I was him. I didn’t hate her. I just wished she could be stronger. I wished she could bring herself to look at me across a dining table and talk to me about her suffering. I didn’t want her to pretend everything was ok. I wanted her to look at me and feel ok to be sad. It’s ok to be sad.
When I turned 18 I left home and moved to the States. I only ever heard from Sian on Birthdays or Christmas. Just a card. Never a phone call.
“To Tom, Happy Christmas, Sian.”
By the time I reached 30 I had almost forgotten what she looked like. All I had was a box full of Christmas cards as a mother. But I still didn’t hate her. I didn’t feel anything. Until today.
I had a phone call from the hospital and got the next flight home. Looking at her now breaks my heart. She’s not just a woman in a dress. She’s not just a Christmas card lying in a box. She’s my mother. I’ve never felt so happy, and I know that’s not the right thing to say when your mother is dying, but I am. I’m happy. And I know she’s happy. She’s smiling. She’s stroking my cheek. My pain brings me joy. With a tear escaping my eye, I look down at her and I feel nothing but love and it’s enough. She looks at me and I feel how a son should feel looking at his dying mother. She whispers the words ‘I always loved you,’ not because she has to, or because it’s the right thing to say, but because she wants to say it. The words curdle in my stomach, but there’s nothing peculiar about it. Her last breath made me breathe her in.
I'm graduating this year with a Master's in creative and Script writing from Lampeter University (Trinity Saint David). I'm 23 and I work full time at a holiday park in Porthcawl as a receptionist! My passion is writing and I hope one day it will become a career!