Recoiling back in loneliness, away from all the hurly burly of the world, in the sheer obscurity of a moonless night, I sat down on the swing facing my house. The atmosphere was solemn, rather mournfully silent. An unexpected shrill seized my spine when a cold wind swished my body. Goosebumps oozed. I tried to concentrate on my heartbeats which hammered in synchronization with my breath. Composed, relaxed and unruffled, I dressed myself to the perfect state of contemplation. I closed my eyes, controlled my breath and diverted my whole attention on the very first picture my mind could catch hold of. Recollecting in loneliness has been my favorite thing to do when I get the impression that my mind was about to explode with tension and pressure. That night, my mind meandered its way to that corner which always triggered the philosophical side of my brain. Who was I? If I could just answer the question in a way that would really give value to this question, then I would say that I am a girl, a mystified, troubled, lost, confused, who does not know why and how she has changed so much. People say that I am not normal. Forget about people, my own biological dad teases me of being an alien’s child. Why? Because I rarely talk or react to any situation, I just shut up and smile away. I do not take care of myself, as any other “normal” girl of my age would do. I stumble in public, leaving the ‘disgusting’ glare of people unaffected upon me. I have no boyfriend, which my University friends find tremendously bizarre. Believe me, the gaze that they shot at me when I told them, or rather forced them to trust me on that issue was just…worth witnessing; as if there was a forced obligation to believe what they thought was illogical. Of course, I understand their situation, because if a girl loves poetry, writes incredibly well, is obsessively in love with Twilight and is ready to spend sleepless nights submerged in the pages of this saga, watches the film as much as she can, tirelessly; over and over again, gets inspired by every love story she hears, becomes mesmerized by every romantic song she hears; and that girl has no boyfriend! That’s not logical at all…or maybe I am just not “normal”. I realized I was smiling, a nostalgic smile with a sarcastic chuckle, while the waves of memories settled in my mind. I stretched my legs and felt the tickling tips of the grass, I let go of a stiffened chuckle again. I was not always like that. The Kate of today was not always like this. Yes, I have changed and the reason is very obvious, yet no one seems interested to take that into consideration. Part of my brain discarded the idea of bringing back those scornful memories again, as it would jinx the perfect atmosphere that reigned, but the other part literally forced me to unveil all those stifling memories. I fought the urge to give up and I succumbed to the temptation of unshackling a few rebellious tears, until I resolved to undergo the risk of sinking back in the most obnoxious tale of my life. My eyes were moist and concentrated, my heart wrinkling in vulnerability and my mind searching for the approved piece of reminiscence to project. My blurred vision gulped a piece of writing I wrote a few months ago. The memory was so unambiguous, so pure and untainted that I could hardly decipher between reality and chimera.
“…Twelve…this was the age when the gap between my mother and myself blurred along the wheel of time. I slowly understood the role my mother played in my life of college girl. She was for me my guide, my friend, my sister and my soul mate. I could recount to her every thing that I used to feel as a growing girl. I remember the day when I got my first menstruation; my mother actually celebrated it, much to my amazement. I could not grasp why should she “celebrate” this and make it become an “issue”? But now I have got a clear cut picture of the feelings my mother impregnated at that time. She was in fact so elated to see her only daughter growing up to a woman…"
I avoided a drop of tear soiling my perfect white satin blouse. I swallowed with excessive difficulty a gulp of bile accumulating up my throat. I sucked in a deep breath, while the memories materialized itself in front of me, in a pure craftmanship of reality…
"Still incredible to my mind, when I think of the day my mother closed her eyes...just unexpectedly… Maybe she wanted to be alone, maybe she’s just too tired of the daily routine; this was the few statements that kept me breathing in the deluge of pain and agony submerging my heart which throbbed like a hammer.
I am now eighteen years, eight months, three days and exactly seven hours and forty-five minutes old. My mom left me about five years ago, leaving me in the lurch, fighting each and every second with my destiny, craving to hear her voice at least once, thirsty of her love and affection, yearning to get scolded by her, passionately wanting her by my side forever.
I know that my mother has been a very good mother, a very good wife and much better as a daughter; I am just trying to be her shadow in the life of my dad and my brother. I do miss her by my side. How I wished she was there for me to wish me luck for all my examinations, how I wished she was here to see me climbing the pinnacles of success, how I wished she was here to see me being in love, how I wished she was here to listen to my daily grudges against my brother, how I wished she was here to support me mentally when I had to take decisions concerning my life.
Now, I do remember her, but with a different kind of pride. I recognize myself as being ‘the’ daughter of my mother. Every step I make towards success will be marked by her momentary support she gave me. I am gratified to her that I got her intelligence, her beauty and her patience in legacy. I know that you are very far away from me, but somewhere I do hope that you are there watching over me, as I take decisions regarding my life, you are there to take a close watch on my Fate Wheel, you are there as a smile when I am happy and when I am deeply saddened by the daily circumstances of my life, you exist as pain and ache in my heart.
Today when I see myself in the mirror, it dawns on me that this is the daughter of my mother, the mother that loved me so much! Life for me has always been thorny and difficult after your death, but I learnt patience, I faced pain in its true shape, I craved for your existence, I have become more responsible, more mature, more talented, and riper.
For this I am grateful to you mother!!!”
For one moment, I forgot to breathe, again. I fought back effortlessly the urge to let go of the disobedient tears from my eyes. I closed my eyes, sensed the riveting warm tears flooding its way down my cheeks, leaving behind its traces. I freed my lips to catch some breath. The emptiness that I felt when I wrote these lines in my diary was untouched for years, and today when I revisited the engraved words in my mind, I could still feel that blistering twinge. I controlled myself, as if this was possible and uttered to all lifeless things that could not hear a word of mine: “This is me…” but the desperate push to shriek out left my sentence unfinished. I struggled hard to swallow the knot in my throat, which blocked my respiration. I was lost in myself and maybe I enjoyed torturing myself like this. At least, the ache would remind me that she was real, and that she actually existed, that… I did have a mother in my life.
