My Mother, the God­dess

The McGill Daily - - Contents - La­vanya Huria Co­coa But­ter

I look like my mother. I carry her curly hair on my shoul­ders and her laugh­ter in my cheeks I pray to her, with her, for her, ev­ery morn­ing and ev­ery night. I started wear­ing lip­stick when I moved away be­cause my mother could be late, but not sans colour­ful lips. I look like my mother, I proudly de­clare as my re­flec­tion gets ready in the morn­ing.

She is the most hon­est per­son I know, and has con­fessed ev­ery em­bar­rass­ing mo­ment of her life to me. How wicked, to re­mind me of her mor­tal­ity, her im­per­fec­tions, her mo­ments of weak­ness.

I am tired, I am weak, would you mind mak­ing din­ner for your fa­ther and me? Oh, you’re hav­ing trou­ble. Here, let me.

My mum heals with ev­ery­thing she does and has ig­nited that same yearn­ing within me. You were put on this path to lis­ten, you were put on this path to guide, you were put on this path to help, you were put on this path to show ev­ery­one that God is ev­ery­where. Stay strong, you have been taught to lead by ex­am­ple.

I look like my mother, and I pre­tend that it is her in the shadow that fol­lows me as I jump through hoops and crawl through tun­nels. I can­not fathom a world where she is dif­fer­ent from me, and I from her.

Some­times I won­der: maybe I am try­ing so much to be­come my mother that I have for­got­ten how to be my­self: I want to tat­too all of her achieve­ments on my skin, it would only serve as a list of all that I have yet to ac­com­plish. I am find­ing who I am sup­posed to be, and I look just like my mother.

Orig­i­nally pub­lished in F Word.

Nelly Wat | The Mcgill Daily

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