La rivière souterraine

This one goes to my mom.

Parents are expected to love all their children an equal amount, whether they do or not, that's another matter. Children on the other hand can pick favorites and often do. Rarely have i found a child that does not care for one parent a tad more than the other. Perhaps it's the charisma that parent exudes, or the respect they draw, or that you just plain identify with them. I am no exception. I have always maintained the view that i am my father's daughter.

Like my dad i pursued math and chose his profession, even though i excelled in literature, perhaps more so. Like him, i voiced my opinions without fearing the repercussions and decided diplomacy was for the ones lacking spunk. Like him my energy flowed boisterous and boundless, any inkling of weakness was shrugged aside as unnecessary appendage.

Did i ever want to be like my mom?

I will not deny that she loved us, but sometimes concrete needs trump the abstract ones. You want your parents to stay still so you can grow. My mom never cared for the so-called duties that a mother adheres to, keeping the house tidy, or cooking delicious dishes, parading her children in nice clothes or attending school events. She would rather read and write in a journal she kept or help us do our homework. As a child it drove me insane. I did not understand her. I did not try. Even though she gave up her job to raise the five of us, and remained a homemaker for the rest of her life, she never lost the agony of not pursuing what she loved. She stood on that threshold of eternal want.

She was a literature major. And now she is the biggest supporter of my love affair with french, always asking questions about my new discoveries and accomplishments. Soft-spoken, afraid of confrontation, sometimes it seemed like she was the child who needed to be taken care of. Growing up, i did not appreciate that. And i held her accountable for my dad's deteriorating health, i thought she ought to have taken better care of him. I even thought that she didn't care for him.

I was wrong. She just didn't know how to show it. She went to pieces after he was gone.

When i called her today, she asked me for an unusual gift, but that was not unlike her. For me to sing a whole song. A song that my dad loved to hear me sing. And i did. Over the phone. She thanked me in the end, and said she closed her eyes and felt dad was sitting beside her listening to me sing.

Some threads are strong, visible and recognized. Some just run underneath. Nevertheless, they both define who we are.