Ammu was a ghost.
The most youthful face of my mother that I know, exists only in her old study. Blue glasses perched upon her nose, red pen in hand, hunched over reading medical textbooks larger than my head. I would tumble into her study, crawl onto her lap and bask in her singing. She'd stroke my hair and play back to me the songs she had already sung to me countless times while still studying. I would drift off to lands I can imagine no longer and when I woke up, and it would be time to leave, my Ammu would be gone again.
Those are the only images of my mother that I can really recall from my earliest days. Even those memories are a bit unclear after so many years collecting dust. As becomes a mirror in an abandoned home. However, the inspiration I felt in those moments; They're as clear and fascinating as a snow globe seemingly unaffected by time, the fake snow swirling around as effortlessly as it did so many years ago.
But now that I'm older, even in my hazy memories I see something my younger self could've never noticed. My young, awestruck eyes could never catch the guilt in her glossy ones. The guilt of being unable to be with her baby. The guilt of only being able to give her child time in the dark embrace of midnight.
How I wish I could go back and hold her hands, her hands worn out with years of mastering surgical tools, and trace over each dent and imperfection. I'd tell her that her guilt has sown the seeds of who I am now. Never once did I feel compelled to blame her for her position. Because something that I've carried from my childhood, is the inspiration she gives me. Her absence in the day never felt like neglect. Knowing she was out there bringing children into the world, while hers were so far away inspired
my love for medicine. Her strength to study till the crack of dawn even after such tiring days made me want to do the same. The love that cut through her fatigue, came through her hands that patted my head, keeps me going even now. The garden of myself has bloomed from my mother's guilt. I wish I could have shown her this garden before her guilt became a part of her. It walks alongside her. The garden, however, is all hers. And when it's in bloom, all of these flowers will be addressed to her.
She's revived from her apparition status nowadays. However, the guilt has never left her irises. Her shadow seems to slump more than she does. Whenever she forgets a small detail, or she's late to lunch, I see it. I hear it in her rushed apologies. No matter how many times I tell her it's okay, I feel that her guilt enveloped her long ago. It trapped her in the remorse that tells her she is not an adequate mother. She tells me she has no regrets, but I can see it in her eyes. The composure grows tired of sticking onto her face and slips off sometimes. Its fall reveals her shame.
I am my mother's daughter; I inherited her round eyes, her distinct lips, her silly facial expressions that come out when she's teasing, and the immovable guilt that haunts her. It flowed into me through her tight hold. The guilt of being the nothing more than ordinary daughter to an extraordinary woman. The guilt of not being half of all that she wants me to be. As her grievances show in her eyes, I believe mine have transfused into my form. The garden of my person is a product of my mother's endless guilt. But it could never be her fault. She could've never known her resentment towards herself would become genetic. And she must not know now. These thorny flowers are far too dangerous even for her experienced hands. They can pierce through my skin and draw blood as I hide them behind my back, I will sweep away the blood that drips down so it may never reach my daughter.
This guilt will end with me, and so I will never hand these flowers over to her. She can never know the parts that will hurt her.
And if carrying her share of prickly stems will free her from her pain, I will tattoo red all over my hands so she must never see the blood drawn from their thorns.
