A Mother’s love is something
that no one can explain,
It is made of deep devotion
and of sacrifice and pain,
It is endless and unselfish
and enduring, come what may
For nothing can destroy it
or take that love away
—Helen Steiner Rice –
Our mother’s love is beyond compare. Unlike the unforgettable first love, the passion for a wife or husband, or even our love for our friends, the mother’s love is very much different—it has no divorce, no separation, and nothing to hear from Mom saying, “Enough is enough.”
Our mother gives her all to us, expecting nothing in return. When we feel down and out or when life’s problems seem unbearable, our Mom will always be on our side, giving us the comforts we need.
Understandably, she wants all her children to be under her wings, so to speak.
I’m dedicating this piece to all the mothers worldwide.
Up to their last breath, our Moms will always be thinking of their children’s welfare, worrying about the kind of life their children will have once they are gone.
Please allow me to remember my Nanay today—I hope most of you can relate to my experience.
Though we were poor, we didn’t experience ever going hungry; my father’s earnings were just enough to bring food to our table. We hadn’t so many clothes, but I remember the only time of the year we would have new clothes was Christmas time—Nanay would ensure that we always had something new to wear during this special holiday season.
Even on the Noche Buena, Christmas Eve, my Mom would see that we have hamon on the dining table, and my father would buy on credit that smoked pata hamon in November at the company’s canteen.
When we were short on cash, my Mom sometimes asked me to run an errand to buy some food at Aling Nena’s little sari store near our house. I would tell Aling Nena to list all the items I would buy, and we would pay everything on my father’s payday.
Sometimes, Mom would put some beaten raw eggs on freshly cooked, very hot rice, add salt, and mix them all up—and presto, we had a meal.
Of course, my parents had some quarrels and disagreements, too. I would always remain silent and neutral by simply observing the goings-on. But I knew then that my Dad would never physically hit Mom. Dad knew that I would defend her come what may. Seeing that I was ready to go to her rescue would embolden Nanay to be more boisterous, and Dad would leave the scene.
My Supermom was a “fighter” in our neighbourhood. No one would ever dare challenge her to a fight—she would do everything to protect her family.
She would always rescue me when I got into trouble with some young boys in the neighbourhood. One time, when I was 12 years old, I axed a 15-year-old guy using that not-so-sharp axe that I usually used to chop wood for cooking. The guy whom I hit was slightly wounded, and the police took me to Police Precinct 6 in Sampaloc. The cops eventually castigated my parents for what had happened, and they freed me.
As a boy in the early ’60s, I had this street job of washing Dollar Taxicabs. The driver would give me 25 cents for the job, and if I earned P2.50, I would give Mom P2, and I would just keep the 50 cents. I also experienced being a cigarette and newspaper vendor roaming the streets of Manila. I would station myself at the corner of Carriedo and another street in front of the Quiapo Church—this place was my base of operation.
My Nanay would bring hot coffee and sandwiches in the morning—coming all the way from Sampaloc. I would normally do this little job during school vacation. But later, I quit selling stuff when some of my street-guy friends tried to convince me to steal shoes from Joe’s department store. At that time, I knew stealing could never be part of my life; I didn’t have the nerve to do this.
After graduating in 1971, I worked at the Philippine Leader Magazine. I gave Mom the first pay I received, and she, in turn, bought me shoes and clothes.
I’ll never forget the things she taught me to do: cook rice, wash and iron clothes, and even pick up fresh tomatoes, fish, and meat at the market. These are some of the practical skills I would need to prepare myself for living in the real world.
I recall Mom’s joy when she got her Sewrite Sewing machine given to her by Dad; it was her dream to get a sewing machine because she had wished to be a modista someday to augment my father’s meagre income.
On weekends, she would attend a free dressmaking seminar at the Moises Salvador Elementary School. But because of so many household chores, she couldn’t focus on becoming a dressmaker.
My Mom dreamed of going to college, but her family didn’t have the money to send her there. Adding to her woes was the fact that her father was not inclined to send her to higher education, telling her, “Mag-aasawa ka lang naman.”
One time, Nanay told me that “when your grandfather (my father) saw me living a hard life, I told him, kung pinagaral lang ninyo ako, di sana iba ang buhay ko”.
According to Mom, her father’s response was, “Patawarin mo ako Meding. “These words were enough for Nanay to forgive her father.
My brothers and sisters are all grateful to our Mom for giving us her best and sacrificing all her life—borrowing money from usurers, going to pawn shops to pay off the tuition, and supporting our education. Her efforts were not in vain—my four sisters, two brothers, and I—have earned our university degrees; we are now living in North America.
Recently, I found this entry in my journal, but it does not have the actual date, except it says, “It’s Monday, 2:30 p.m.” But I know that was the last time I visited Nanay in New York, in 2011 and the following year, she died.
Here’s the journal entry: “I’m looking at her face, and it’s a little greasy, shiny and oily, and while I’m doing this, Nanay is singing “Maalaala mo kaya…. . tanging larawan ang nakatago”.
She is covered with a brown blanket while singing this song with her eyes closed. When she comes this line”tignan mo ang aking puso, tanging larawan ang nakatago” she is almost raising her voice, as if to stress this line.
While Mom is in her wheelchair, her feet are covered with a yellow pillow. Her right-hand finger keeps tinkering, her way of beating the music’s rhythm. Once in a while, she opens her eyes and blurts out ” ang sakit ng likod ko”.
Seeing her condition was unbearable, and all I could do was keep massaging her back. “
With her age and illness—Alzheimer’s —she had forgotten lots of things; she could not recognize us–her seven grown-up children–not even knowing our names.
Well, what more can I say, except: ‘Nay, we will always miss you.”