An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Love is strange:  I owe her  my very existence  but accidents happen  and she always  reminded me of it  but filial piety  so strong  and enforced  the guilt  seeped into  my very bones  so maternal love  contradictory  wrapped within  obligation  but she is  still my mother

Cauliflower trees  white blooms  floret  of flowers  that look like bunches of white  snow on branches Cotton candy trees pink blooms almost like cherry but not quite soft petals rain like a crimson carpet My daughter points and laughs at the memory of a young girl with an imaginative mind naming the trees. 

Secrets don't tend to hide forever they will be discovered whether you like it or not sometimes you stumble over it without expecting to see or they rip the band aid and tell you with no frills here is what happens this is what to expect either way to be blindsided in the name of protection makes it all a moot point when it hits you like a brick wall

One day she just snaps. She just leaves it all behind. No matter how comfortable a cage is still a cage It doesn't change when they say it will get better then it never does Or when they say that they will help but they never come. The most thankless the most taken-for-granted the most noble profession And when she is already gone people realize how much she did for them but not until then and not until it happens. By then the point is moot they blame everyone else but not themselves too late to help her. It's her fault she wasn't strong enough to keep smiling even when her heart exploded. 

It's rather odd... My ancestors have come and gone generations separate us and yet... I still feel them every time I take up my brush and trace every character stroke. And every time I put my hands around a bowl of steaming egg drop soup. When I go through language lessons wrapping my head around measure words and many dialects. I try to pick up noodles with the plain wooden chopsticks with very little grace. Today starts a new year The Year of the Wood Snake "Gõngxĩ făcái. Happy New Year."

Too much to do too little time loads of laundry clean out the van wrap gifts last minute shopping hotel arrangements Always the one traveling year after year No one returns the favor too far too busy too much of a hassle we can do it so they don't have to. Grin and bear it only to be ignored at family outings my kids too disruptive because they are different but she wants to see her cousins so we do it anyway. I need a vacation from my 'vacation' preferably someplace warm and tropical without dealing with family who really don't give a damn.

I watch her on stage in the company of fellow musicians as they tune their instruments and prepare to serenade the audience with lovely music. That could have been me forty or so years ago if I'd had the courage to tell my mother what I wanted to do and how I longed to do it. She was too tired the crowds too exhausting the sacrifices too great Unfulfilled dreams with her own violin she didn't want to open that book. Other priorities school was more important Get straight A's, help the family do what I want you to do then think about what you want to do you with your life. Forty years later my own daughter proudly plays because she loves it and she wants to and I smile and be happy for her and not just for me.

She had everything all planned out: doctor or lawyer Church every Sunday Living at home while going to college Marry a good man Have lots of grandchildren Live close by so she can visit whenever she wants. Had dreams of traveling to other places? "Take me with you! I want to see it too!" The perfect future one she could brag to all of her friends and the rest of the family the matriarch of them all and of course they would take care of her in her old age. So when they never call when her birthday rolls around and never drop by for milestones and holidays she curses their selfishness and wonders where she went wrong.

Soft as a rose petal the skin of a newborn babe so sweet and innocent sleeps on, ignorant of the harsh years to come that will weather it to the consistency of leather. Rough as gravel Grandmother's touch is still soft It has seen so much over the passage of years the storms have not changed the firmness of warm stone.

I miss my dad's cooking the smell of food wafting from the kitchen roasts, barbeque, soups flaky buttery pastries although he can't eat them because of the sugar it doesn't stop him from being hospitable to everyone he knows. "Are you hungry?" He will drop everything to cook you a meal. He braved going to the store in a snowstorm to get ice cream during a craving. Experimenting with recipes and asking me to taste test them. The only reason to go home again but it's a good one. To see him truly happy in the kitchen entertaining, taking care of the ones who walk through his door. It kills me to know this doesn't happen as often as it should.

I don't feel angry anymore. It's almost expected. When I need you it's only at your convenience. When I talk to you, it's just an irritation. You have your own priorities. Work, children, money, spouse in that order. I do everything that you don't want to deal with: child care, appointments, bills all the things that interfere with doing what you want. When I'm in pain I don't bother saying so because life must be without any conflict, any problems. It's something you can't control so it's something you can't handle. And you wonder why I don't smile anymore.

Name a generation where there have been happy days and tranquil nights but there have been dark shadows and horrible events that shatter the spirit and the illusion of paradise. The old tell stories the new want to make their own new ones. What wisdom do they need to go on their journeys? So then the cycle repeats and they point their fingers at each other the young don't know anything the old have nothing more to say. But both have their trials their toils, their suffering Those who come before set the path for those who come after turn after turn And it only becomes obvious in retrospect at the threshold of the gate from generation to generation.

What do they tell you when they look at you with those wise eyes older than the sands of time? A loyalty earned, A love eternal. Years aren't enough life is fleeting but every day every hour every minute every second is worth it as far as they are concerned. And the happiness from sunrise to sunset lasts forever with every bark meow caw squeak it echoes in memory always.

8,724:  the distance in miles between the Philippines and the Eastern coast of the US 28,470: the number of days in 78 years 4000: the distance in miles between London, UK and North Carolina 18,262: the number of days in 50 years Mother Eight thousand seven hundred and twenty four That is how many miles from beginning to end. Where the story starts to where it finally ends. From one land to another to one culture to the next Quite a journey is it not? Twenty eight thousand four hundred and seventy That is how many days from beginning to end Where the tale will start and it still keeps going. From one moment to another to one adventure to the next It's an epic is it not? Daughter Four thousand That is how many miles from beginning to now. A home I've never known to an abode I've always been My heart still yearns for what could have, should have It's a tragedy, is it not? Eighteen thousand two hundred and sixty two That is how many days from beginning to end When the saga...