Many years have passed since that cold autumn night in 1984, when you had showed me that article, for the first time. Back then, your emotions were flowing out of the strong barrier you had created long ago, so I understood why you needed to tell me, but nothing in the whole world would have prepared me for what was to come.
It was the first time I ever knew that your beautiful, azure eyes could change in mere seconds, from destroyed to dark – and the image terrified me. You had looked so vulnerable, before you saw me come in, sprawled on the couch with a bottle of terrible-smelling liquid – that I didn’t recognize at the time – in your hand, your eyes heavily-laden with salty moisture, that looked as pure as the clouds after a storm, your blonde curls a disarraying mess. I was confused by how you stared at your phone, allowing the same words to fall off your blue lips ‘He got married today’.
Then when your eyes began to fill up with hatred, I wished to god I hadn’t been born, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have confirmed that the feelings of discomfort, that graced your blue orbs every time you looked at me – were not hallucinations, that your eyes could be anything but gentle and that I was the sole reason of your suffering, the minute you tossed me that old newspaper page that read ‘St.Marcus hospital offers a house for an abandoned mother who was left without a home or money for her kids and new-born.’
I wasn’t consumed by guilt right away though, I couldn’t understand yet that my father had abandoned us when I was born, but how can I when I was just starting to learn how to walk home on my own. Did it feel better to not need to pretend to care anymore? I genuinely hope that it lessened your hardship.
Did you know that I had been kicked off my gymnastics team later that month, without even a solid explanation? It had hurt, quite a lot, but I knew that I wasn’t the same anymore. No one had any idea why I had suddenly replaced my brown eyes, which enjoyed dancing with the specks of light that fell from the sky, with cold-stone eyes that didn’t even allow entry for fluorescent light. My lips moved, talked and curved upwards into a smile, but my eyes would always remain the same, until the day my eccentric music teacher had strolled my way.
I had no idea, mum, that he would be the person who will lead me to the path I was meant to take. We were having a casual conversation one day, until he said’ You want to feel something again?’ I had asked him what he meant only to receive a vague reply ‘If you can’t speak your mind, try playing your heart. Music speaks louder than words, child.’ I had followed him to the music room and sat next to him near the piano. I asked him ‘won’t you teach me?’ but he said ‘Only you do know how you feel. Tell it your tale, it will listen and relay your message to others and make them understand.’
I never stopped visiting after that and I realized why – the day I had asked you to come to my junior-high graduation. The day I had yelled back, with no idea where my courage had come from. Was it your hurtful reply ‘Go ask your other parent, I don’t have time for you.’? Was it your act of reprimanding my sister for thanking me in her valedictorian speech yesterday, your piercing gaze, which spoke so many words, without making a sound, or the fact that the magazine you were reading was more important than me? Only later did I realize, that it was my ability to talk freely through the piano that allowed the words, that have been sheltered in my mouth for years, to break free. For the first time, I felt like I was talking to you. Our screaming matches had been a welcomed alternative to our silence that spelled ‘fear’ loud and clear in the hallways of our home. ‘At least you are looking at me’ I remember thinking that day. My cries had been my way, of reaching out to you, fueled by the craving of the loving looks; you threw my sisters’ way. But you never did give in. In my eyes, you had become the person who had deprived me of the thing I wanted the most. That’s why my eyes had been a gun, firing shots of resentment your way, making your life harder. I’m sorry I had hated you. It was my fault in the first place, because I had allowed myself to be hurt by a person, who wasn’t you, but a lost, scared woman who had a face that resembled yours.
If only I had put off the inextinguishable rays of fury in my heart sooner, than Christmas day, 1993, when I had entered our home after a long car ride from college. The smile, I had plastered on my face at the happiness of returning home after an exhausting semester, had completely faded away the minute I rounded a corner, and saw tears run down your face, in a clear waterfall as you stared at an image, that had been wearied by time, of a bronze-skinned man, that resembled me greatly, hushed sniffles escaping your dry throat. ‘I had caused you pain, I’m sorry’ was what I had wanted to say, but I kept silent and walked over to you instead. Did you know it was me who held you in my arms, letting your tears seep into my skin to try and share your burden for a while? Because I could swear, that after that, your glares had turned into gazes and your harshness had softened some.
And I was extremely happy at the time because of that, yet, that change brought along selfishness. I had constantly called you in spite of knowing that you needed time to accept me. I’m sorry, mother, but I couldn’t control my greed or my yearning for the image of your beautiful smile directed my way. I guess I believed that a person is bound to wake up from a dream eventually.
Remember the day I had curled my auburn hair and let it bounce behind my back, which was covered by my long-sleeved black dress. ‘Anna, you’re beautiful’ you had said, back when I was five when you had curled my hair to perfection for a dinner at Aunt’s and that’s why I had endured the machine, blowing hot wind on my scalp. I knew you’d be happy if you saw me up there, looking like that, through the crowds that came to witness my first piano recital as a composer. I had thought of you, the entire time I was playing the notes that spoke my thoughts – the song that I had wrote for you. Yet, after I hit the last note and got up to greet the crowd – you weren’t there. But that’s okay. I had told you I would wait until your pain of seeing me, fades away. And I was determined to, but I couldn’t endure my disappointment weighting down my heart, so I’m sorry I had startled you when I banged on your door, like my life depended on it. ‘What’s wrong?’ your question had me confused, so I yelled ‘What’s wrong is that I don’t know when you’ll ever let me in, mum.’ My heart had been breaking at your clear indifference. And no matter how strong I was by that point, I couldn’t handle further specks of hope disappearing, so I had to ask for the truth I wasn’t ready to hear ‘Will you ever love me?’At your reply, which was achieved by my pleading eyes, after 27 years, I finally understood. ‘My stupid girl, I’ve been selfish. Because I couldn’t handle blaming myself, I blamed you. I’ve hurt you so much, so why get to know me now after everything that I’ve done?’
Overcome by this new info, I softly replied ‘It’s okay mum, if we keep looking over our shoulders, instead of the road ahead, we are bound to trip and remain where we are forever.’
I want to thank you for letting go of the hurtful memories along with me even though there was no guarantee as to what our future would be. Yes, mum, you did give me pain. However pain, was what had molded me into the person I was meant to be, helped me find the piano and let it lead me and proved to me that nothing important ever comes easy. Knowing now how it felt to be engulfed in your love, I’d take a thousand hits to my heart as long as I get to be your child.
Your daughter,
Anna
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