As the parent, age-regressed back to, childhood, and the child grew up, into, adulthood…role reversal here, translated…
"Look! Two yolks in the egg!", "The cuttlefish glowed in the dark!", before I started school, my mother would use these, tiny, surprises, to enlighten, me.
And, as I grew older, all of these items became, what she'd, packed for me for lunch to take to school. In first grade back then, there wasn't the provisions of the school lunches, the steam baskets to reheat up our foods, it was from her making it in the morn, and, she'd, brought the lunches to me at school. In middle school, there was a classmate who had the eyes on the sunny side up my mother made for me, and he'd, often, traded with me with the best item his mother packed, for him. As I'd started working, I'd continued this habit of getting my lunches from home, and when I was on a conference call out of office, I'd asked my colleagues to finish my lunch for me, and they'd always had nothing but good things to say about the lunches, and I'd told this to mom, she'd always smiled, and not said, a single,, word.
I kept on believing, that it was a matter of fact, that the lunches my mother made for me are with a ton of good stuff in it. But as my father died, the few years after that, the lunches became, lighter, lighter, and lighter still. My mother no longer dyed her hair, started forgetting things, she'd not gone to the favorite marketplace to shop for her groceries as she used to anymore. The neurologists diagnosed her with dementia.
But, the "missions to feed her children", this very first act she had been taking on since I was little, had been, deeply, etched into her, mind. When she woke in the early morn, she'd often, mumbled to herself, "what's for breakfast?", after supper, she'd asked me, "Do you need to bring a lunch from home tomorrow?", and she'd only, inquired, and not made anything else that came after that.
And I'd had to, start, learning the duel with the pots, pans, and the steel spatula. My mother had dentures, a loss of her appetite, and every time we ate, she'd eaten like a baby, slowly, chewing down her food. She was originally, quite, slender and slim, she'd, shrunk even more as she aged, and, when she was in a mood, she'd become, more like a kid.
And so, we'd, still interacted with each other from forty years ago, it's just, that I'm now, her parent, and she, my child.
Only when it comes to cooking, she'd, recalled her status of, a mother. I'd, coaxed her to come to shop for groceries with me at the marketplaces, then, she'd, followed me, who's not even agile enough in the kitchens in, that's become, a daily, routine now. And, all of these, familiar, realms which she dominated, it may reduce the holes in the sift temporarily, to slow down the losses.
One time, the T.V. said something about an "aged soy sauce", and, I couldn't understand what it'd meant, and I'd, asked her, without a second thought, she'd, responded, "it's black bean soy sauce!", and, that was, a moment of, wonder, like how the sun finally, came out, after a whole season of, rain. Actually, I, who's still, testing out the waters in cooking, still hoped to grab a little something onto, from my mother, the knowledge that returned temporarily, after the tsunamis of memory loss hit, became, ever the more, precious.
illustration from UDN.com
One night there was a outage, we'd, lit up the candles by the gas stove, she started cleaning the vegetables, I, cooked. The candle light swayed like the star light, illuminating my mother's, silvery, whites. At that moment, I'd felt, that a lot of times, life is, about preparing a simple meal, from start to, finish.
After we took out the trash after the meals, sometimes, I'd led her by the hand, to go to the nearby super convenience store to buy something, to get her exercise of the day in, just as how half a century ago, she'd, led me by the hand, pointed to the flowers by the sides of the roads, the puppies now, she'd, turned into, an, innocent, child.
I didn't have any children, but, I do, because, there's, always, the child that lives, here. That child had, grown, old, and the adult, age regressed back, to the, innocence of the childhood, days again. We'd, switched, places now, becoming, a full circle, and that, is the rotation of the, stories, of this, home.
And, so, this is how you took care of your own, mother who's, demented, just as she'd, taken care of you, shown you the world you live in, when you were, just, a young, child, and, this is a good thing (not the dementia), but how you have the chances, to, mother your own, mother, to take care of her, to repay her for, raising you up, into, adulthood…
