Wounds.

I still remember the night my mom and I had a long talk. My sister was away on a mission ata, so I slept with my mom in her room.

My mom, when we sleep beside her, gusto niya holding hands, so I was groping around for her hand under the sheets and when I tried to grasp it, I felt that she was holding onto something like paper. I asked her what it was and she said it was a picture of my dad. (That was the time I was having issues with my work in the government.) She said that she has been holding onto it every night eversince my 'problem' started, and if my dad was alive, he would be doing everything to help me win the 'war'. She said how my dad loved me so much more than anyone else, more than her. She said I look so much like my dad, even my personality. She reminded me my dad had only 2 pictures in his office; a family portrait on the wall and a picture of me on his desk. And if my dad only knew how much pain his dream was causing me, he wouldn't have pushed me on. Then she started to cry.

I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. Seeing my mom cry tore my heart to pieces. I was going through some difficult time myself but my pain was nothing compared to what my mom felt in her heart. She quietly said that wala na siyang hihintayin umuwi pag gabi, wala na siyang ipaghahain, hindi na niya makakatabi sa pagtulog ang daddy ko. That was when I started to cry as well. I held on to her like any child would do. We tried to let the tears wash the pain away temporarily.

I was reminded of this just the other night when I came home. I saw my dad's picture, the same picture my mom was holding onto 5 years ago when we had the talk, placed on my pillow.

I know that it was not my mom's intent to make me cry. Far from it, I know. But I now find myself crying for a while before I fall to sleep, thinking of my dad or whoever, or whatever.

I still feel the sting of the deep wound, but I’m used to the pain now. Time made sure of that.