Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: Mother (as in maternal parent) (04/24/08)
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TITLE: Under My Umbrella of Love | Previous Challenge Entry
By Angeline oppenheimer
04/30/08 -
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The little school bus stopped and out went Zhang, otherwise known as “dumpling” on the bus route. As he ambled down the steps, his chunky legs fighting the narrow space to reach the ground, an umbrella appeared. Bright yellow with little ducklings, it mysteriously popped up to shelter his thick mane of hair shrouding his red cheeks. His mother smiled and together they walked up the street towards their house. My eyes traced their gait and a longing grew in my heart.
Will my mother be there?
Dainty Ling was next. Always perky, always decked out with a myriad of barrettes in her shiny black hair, neatly coaxed into braids, she waved goodbye to everyone before the doors creaked to let her out. A slender lady carrying one umbrella over her head and a smaller one in her hand was craning her neck. No doubt, Mrs. Lee was always prepared. A gush of wind, a splatter of rain stole inside the bus, and a gentle voice whipping Ling away and two umbrellas walking side by side. I watched until they faded away in the distance--mother and daughter-hand in hand, two bright blobs of color bobbing in the rain and wonder:
Will my mother be there?
Soon, the bus grew quiet as each kid reached their destination. Long was fetched from the bus with a giant bamboo umbrella. I bet his shoes didn’t even get wet. Wei lived in that sprawling colonial house and usually his maid (in her ubiquitous black and white uniform) was there. Umbrellas, big and small, some with flourishes of design, some somber as the rain falling--each child had a cover over his head and an affirmation of love and protection. My eyes were tired from yearning:
Will my mother be there?
The bus meandered through narrow mud roads to reach the last block. “Little blossom, your turn’s up,” the bus driver turned around to look at me. As the door swung open, I hope my eyes failed me--no umbrella and no waiting mother. The bus ran over a pothole and sprayed muddy water on my white canvas shoes. Quite the picture of my heart. I looked up and down the street, hoping for an umbrella to pop.
Why won’t my mother show up?
The rain had worked its way into my scalp. My body was plastered with my soaked uniform as I let myself into the house. Silence. I walked into the bedroom to hear the soft breathing of my mother, sound asleep. Rivers ran down my face, and I don’t know if it’s rain or tears.
Small as I was, something tore at my heart. Why didn’t she think to come and pick me when every mother on the block showed up? The coldness grew with the years. I didn’t know the warmth of a hug, I didn’t know what it was like to scramble up into inviting laps to nestle for comfort, to let out steam, to share a laugh, to find strength. I didn’t know what it was like to run through the door after school to tell my latest crush or share the angst of adolescence. We were encased in bubbles--two creatures living under the same roof but never really crossing over to share vulnerabilities or dreams. She was encased in her own woes--a bad husband and a string of kids that sapped her energy. I was raising myself in the bubble of self-sufficiency.
She didn’t show up and I failed to see why.
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Years later, in a hospital in America, in the throes of pain. “Push,” the nurse coaxed as perspiration drenched my disheveled hair. I shook my head and mouthed the words, “I can’t.” They brought the respirator as the gynecologist said something about cutting the opening bigger for my 5-pounder to come out. I screamed in protest, I wanted to run away from this nightmare as they numbed me yet again.
Looking at my baby boy--such joy after such pain--it’s horrorfanatstic--an oxymoron, an object lesson for my distant heart from my own mother. Had she never cared for me after bringing me into this world, it could have been enough, it would have been enough.
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