My mom’s existence, for me, represents the mundane, ordinary, unexciting moments of my life. They sometimes piss me off, yet they are necessary for my own existence. I cannot imagine losing this part of myself, nor could I bear the possibility of losing her. She breathes, she winks, she smiles, she frowns, she walks around in the house, she takes her glasses on when drawing a sketch, because she is getting older and thus starts getting farsightedness. Every time she tries to intervene the food I eat, the way I locate my body on a chair (squat rather than sit), the order I do the chores, I cannot hate hate hate those words more. Yet, every time I embrace her soft body, as soft as a baby, I feel as an aircraft landing one more time, after a long long fly.
Maybe, this contradictory relationship between me and my mother, and this conflicting emotion of me towards her, is a reflection of my own self. I cannot escape from the mundaneness of my life, yet I also consider everyday a new adventure, a unique happening in history that will never occur the second time. Yet they are just composed of 24 hours, di-da-di-da-di-da, see, another two-thirds has gone for today’s record.
What is the fine line between normal and extraordinary? I don’t know, I do not have the answer. I just know I love my mom, the same way as I adore today’s sunlight, today’s breeze, and today’s bore.
Jenny and Figs 