Mindfulness

Her house is filled with a quiet serenity.  From faraway, I hear a bird chirping, a neighbor hammering away at something.  Those are the only sounds I hear this morning, save the infrequent tortured coughs and sighs that exits from my mom as she rests on her couch.  I peer above my laptop to look at her, just to make sure that she's OK.  I want to memorize her - every little bit of her right now.  Even though she would probably hate me for it, I want so bad to take a selfie with her.  I want to remember the green top and periwinkle pants she's wearing.  She'll never know it, but she reminds me of Queen Elsa today. Yes, the Ice Queen, what with her pale, clean, still youthful face.  Youthful.  Typing those words makes me cower in a sudden somatic pain.  I'm suddenly reminded that her life could have been so much more.  My stomach lurches at the thought of my dad living alone, robbed of his spouse in the near future.  My heart cries in jealousy of those who have mothers who will live long, fulfilled lives.  My soul weeps, because my eyes are out of tears this week.

Here. Now.

Those are words I live by now.  I saw a behavioral health consultant a few weeks back for several sessions after deciding that coping with the gradual loss of my mother while being a full time working mother was just too....much. I learned that mindfulness practice is a powerful tool, to ground the soul back to the present. I describe the sensations and the feelings that I see and hear right now.  And focus on those things.  But I'm a novice at this. It's easy, in times of grief and despair to let our thoughts get ahead of ourselves - future tripping as I call it.  Mine always ends up going to the same place - the place where suddenly, I'm navigating this world alone, without my mom's hand to guide me. Her face becomes hard to remember.  Her voice fades.

Here. Now.

I'm brought back into the present. My dad has just returned from running errands.  I'm glad I took the morning off of work. I sit with her, silently watching her as she naps.  She's had an eventful morning and I'm proud to have assisted her in eating a big bowl of jook. Her cheeks are radiantly dusted with the NARS Amour blush that I applied on her this morning. She protested a little bit, worried that the "dust" from the blush would make her cough.  But I insisted.  I thought it'd make her feel better. And I was right.  I watched her smile after I applied the thin layer of rosy pink to her cheeks. Her face is so thin and fragile, but her cheekbones stood tall and proud. People would die for cheekbones like hers, I say.  She smiles further as I move the brush to my own face, applying the same color to the cheekbones I inherited from her.

I look at the clock.  11:30.  I have 45 more minutes before I have to go to work.  I dread the separation.  All of a sudden, I feel like a toddler again - like my own four year old.  Not wanting to leave, and unsure of when I might see her again.  I look over to my Dad, who is now settled in his armchair, contently tapping away at his tablet.  Probably getting some WeChat time with his friends. I desperately don't want to leave him either.  At least there's internet and text messages now, I think.  I'm always just one tap, one click away.  Never too far.  I let myself out of the guilt trap that I made in that 30 seconds of a stare.

Here. Now.