aDrenais' Book of Shadows

I was rushing home for dinner on Friday after work. The train was less crowded than usual, a welcome relief and a pleasant touch to the end of the work week. When I boarded the east bound train at City Hall, I elbowed my way to the centre of the carriage to avoid the squeeze at the doors. I stood in front of two women, both who crossed their right leg over the left.

The lady on my left was a middle-aged women in black. Her right foot was getting in my way, and I was irritated because it was dangerously close to my left shin. I didn't manage to give her the evil eye, though, because she had her eyes firmly shut. It was alittle disconcerting to watch her after awhile, when it became apparent that she was not asleep. She shook her head in slight jerks periodically, and her body twitched as though involuntarily. She made small gestures with her right hand resting in the crook of the left one, and it was clear that she was agitated about something. She muttered under her breath sporadically, mouthing words rathering than uttering them.

I stared shamelessly, entranced by this picture of vulnerability in such a public area. She had a frown on her face, a look that says how on earth could this happen. Her immaculately coiffed hair only served to highlight the distress on her face, so incongruent the sight. As the train approached Tanah Merah, tears formed beneath her tightly shut eyelids and made their way down her face. A lone one fell onto her chest exposed by a low-cut blouse. The tears fell slowly, the effort to restrain them almost palpable.

I thought of my mother. The sight of such helplessness over one's actions brought about by an obviously distressing incident made me wonder if this is how my mother looked each time I pulled off something that she did not agree with. Maybe what I did made her cry in public once too. Maybe she internalised everything, causing such a massive buildup of vitrol that resulted in her present self. Maybe she was luckier, and had friends and my Dad to confide in. Maybe she was stronger, and chose to keep the tears in her heart. Whatever it is, I wouldn't know because my relationship with my mother had never developed to a point where I could ask her how she felt.

Disgust. At the indifference I felt towards my mother. I felt sorry for the lady in black, and wondered about the pain so great that couldn't be repressed, yet I've never given much consideration to the pain I caused to my mother. The empathy I so generously doled out to my friends was never extended to my mother, and it sickens me to think of all the times I spent counselling friends, trying to make them feel better, understanding and sympathising with their woes, when there is a much more deserving receipient of such attention. I cannot remember when I decided that my mother was not worth the effort. When she was critical about every single thing I did? When she told me to do more housework, use less of the Internet for chatting, and not to go out so often? When she grew so exasperated with me that she refused to speak to me? I don't have a clue, but I've forgotten what it was like, having a mother who's also an ally.