Mama

Artwork by Shona Hawkins

Mama, we’ve always called her, as if we knew that she would someday step into the role. In 1985, she was relishing her immigrant life in America, when word of my mother’s illness urged her home to the Philippines. I had just turned 18.

My younger siblings and I were the five offspring of her son and daughter-in-law; they passed away within five years of each other, much earlier than their genes’ longevity prescribed. For the next 25 years, Mama became our guardian, until the youngest of us was ready to stand on his own.

She lived in a mid-century split-level home she helped design, just next door to our family’s modern bungalow. Every Saturday she would traverse the footpath that joined our homes. She took careful strides, minding the uneven pavers and their grassy gaps. Her gait was steady, her posture erect; her bright red nails and lipstick little vanities that belied her age.

Over lunch she would regale us with stories of her youth – school days in dormitories run by American nuns; the time her father brought her to the big city to sing on a radio program; how she sewed wedding dresses to help make ends meet early in her married life. Her memories were fascinating. I absorbed every detail.

Our afternoons would continue with a game of Scrabble. Sometimes it would be just the two of us, other times with my siblings. Our love of words bound Mama and I. She was a cheerleader to my early writing, and her small library of encyclopaedias and children’s classics were my haven and introduction to reading for pleasure. I also inherited my enjoyment of crossword puzzles from her.

On birthdays and other special occasions, we would take Mama with us to celebrate, trying different restaurants and cuisines each time. I like to think we added to her happy memories.

Mama missed this routine when I moved to Australia with my husband and daughter in 2006. Our weekly lunches were replaced with occasional letters. My family went to visit her once, but for the rest of her years, it was through phone or video calls that we would exchange stories and holiday greetings. Our phone call on Boxing Day of 2012 is one I will always treasure. It was the last time we spoke. Her last words to me were “I love you.”