The secrets we keep in the closet

I had successfully memorized the street corners to evade the anxiety of getting lost on my way back from the supermarket. Never mind that it took me four months. I was here to stay for the next two years or maybe more than that. Whenever I felt homesick and couldn’t sleep, I would picture my mother’s face; how it looked on the day we left home. Her eyes glistened, the sunlight illuminating her fragility. When she hunched down to pick up our bags, that’s when I noticed how small she really was.

I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know whether to say “thanks” or “sorry”.

The night before our departure, I found a poem she had written stashed away on her old computer. She was afraid of the skeletons in the closet and the silence that sweeps over the floors where there once was the sound of running feet. I partly felt responsible for this loneliness, but I couldn’t bring myself to apologize. It was my mother’s little secret.

As the months rolled on, an intoxicating buzz seemed to accompany the nearing holidays. Christmas break was something to look forward to. The anticipation of going home often made me wonder how my mother’s days looked like. I would revisit the memory of the dirt roads, houses, highways, and faces of people we’d pass by on the way to school. In the big city, the landscapes hardly warranted remembrance, everything looked the same.

 On the day we arrived at the airport, we headed straight to the hospital. My mother had suffered a stroke. After the New Year, the doctor sent us home. My mother’s smallness had grown more apparent during this time. Her slurred speech was a cause of annoyance to her, with limited ways of communicating, her gaze became the compass that pointed us in the direction of her needs. The weakness in her limbs had constrained her ability to hold a mug, so she was fed liquids with a spoon.

Years later after her recovery, my mother’s child-like stubbornness often surfaced in front of the dinner table. Certain foods were no longer served in the house, my father agonized himself checking every food label on the biscuit packets whilst my mother grieved the gone days of meat consumption. If there was ever an exception, it would always be around the holidays. When we came home, meat was a permissible guest on the dinner table. Careful not to irk my father, she would stealthily reach for small portions of meat whenever his back was turned. Sometimes my sister and I would connive and offer her a piece. This ritual would be sealed with a low snicker amongst ourselves and a promise not to tell.

When she was recovering, I would accompany my mother to the rehabilitation clinic. At home, she would practice walking around the living room to regain strength in her legs. When I was back in the city, my mind often wandered back to her. I would picture how she looked whilst we waited for the doctor’s call in the hospital cafeteria. The skin on her face was like a dried raisin, her eyes drooped, and with shoulders caved inwards, her body looked elfish.

She had grown old. I thought to myself.

In those moments, I wished I could offer my youth on a platter. But if there is one thing that my mother and I can share, it’s our love for secrets.