my gift to mum

A young boy was bicycling down his street in Florida one January afternoon. The sky was overcast with dark clouds, their bellies full of rain as they obscured the setting sun. The boy lost control of his bicycle and fell hard, scraping his elbow badly against the concrete. The pain was terrible with blood flowing from where the skin had been scraped. He wailed and wailed. Once home, his mother soothed the boy, wiping the scrape clean, rocking him in her arms as she sat in a chair and told him everything was all right. While his cries turned to sniffles, their family watched on the television as the space shuttle exploded in the air, shortly after its launch. It was January 28, 1986.


In California on a sunny day, the boy, his shirt drenched in sweat, guzzled some water from his thermos as he waved goodbye to some of his teammates. He took a towel from his bag and wiped his forehead. In the parking lot, his mother patiently waited, looking through her wire-rim glasses for him. He put his towel away and swung the bag on his shoulder. He walked over to his soccer ball and nudged it along the field, then onto the pavement, as he walked to the car, his cleats tapping with each step like muffled heels. He opened the door and pounced in by saying, “Hi mom.” A yummy dinner she was cooking awaited.


Years later, the boy, now a freshman in college, sat in a hospital bed after a car accident. It was a rainy December morning when he lost control of the car. The accident mangled the car doors so badly that the paramedics decided the safest way to pull him out of the wrecked car was through the back windshield.

He sat in bed, his head numb and tingly, his neck wrapped with a heavy brace, when his mother stepped into the room. Her eyes were peeled open like saucers, a hand covering her mouth. She had been called from work and didn’t know what to expect. Maybe she knew then, before he told her what happened, that she had almost lost him. If a vehicle had been in the opposite lane of traffic when his car briefly hydroplaned into it, that would have probably been it for both drivers.


The sky over Arequipa that afternoon was a bland blue as the boy, now a bearded young man, entered el Cemeterio Apachete with his younger sister and their mother. They had come to pay respects to some of their beloved deceased with some fresh but dying flowers. The mother had already visited a few times on that trip and knew the women who worked by the entrance.

“Mamita, me haces un favor? Me puedes dar una jarra de agua para dar ha estas flores?” the mother, holding a bouquet of vibrant flowers she had just bought, said to a short woman in her late fifties. The woman must have worked at the cemetery, since she held a garden hose in her hand. She wore black pants and shoes, a blue vest over her maroon sweater and a gardener’s hat to protect from the sun. She told the mother that she didn’t have a spare bucket handy. “No te preocupes, mamita. Yo encuentro uno,” the mother replied affectionately.

The three continued on, walking towards the grandfather’s resting place. El Misti, the town's patron volcano, loomed over all the white adobe crosses, headstones, and mausoleums. The boy, now a bearded young man, still got humbled and amazed, after all these years, at the warmth, the gentleness, his mother was capable of giving to strangers. He has always wanted to be like her in this sense.


On Sunday, April 6, 2008, the boy, still a bearded young man, is riding his bicycle gently through the crisp air of Yosemite Valley. He had come to camp alone to celebrate his 29th birthday but his heart was brimming with love and good wishes from his family and friends. It was his last full day before driving back to his home in the foggy city. Even after doing the same act for three full days, the young man still couldn’t contain himself from staring up at the tops of the redwoods as they rolled past him, like nature’s own special effect. It was a wonderful privilege to be alive, he thought. At that moment, he was not sure if he had ever felt that happy, that contented.


In a few days, the boy, still a bearded young man, will take the BART train home to Fremont to be with his family. He will call his parents at the Hayward station to tell them where he is. His father or mother will assuredly answer by saying, “Okay, ya voy a salir a recogerte.” The young man will thank them and hang up, his work for that equation done.

In the parking lot, his mother will be waiting in her dark Toyota Corolla. She will be turned, watching the entrance for her boy through her thin-rimmed glasses, just like she did when she used to pick him up from soccer practice, from school, or from work (before he was given a car). The boy has always been beyond fortunate, even spoiled, to have both a father but especially a mother who never ceases to be there, like his very own constellation in the twinkling night.

And for this he will always be grateful.