I swear to the four walls of your house, you did yell to your mom looking for your stuff as if she was the keeper of everything. When you got home screaming asking what you could eat and as you walk to the kitchen you magically found the food already prepared. Jumping and crying around the grocery store to buy your favorite cereal. (And whole other bunch of tantrums.) But have you ever thank her for being superb in preparing everything for you? Did you ever tell her how lucky you are to have her?
I ‘yelled’ at her three times in my whole entire life. She was standing there, still and absorbing all the words I spit on her. All I did was to scream every utterance to her and expressed as if with exclamation point. It was never an argument, for I know in the beginning she never wanted one or even consider any moments like this before. She considers herself weak to yell back at me. I selfishly owned the moment.
I slammed the wooden door and left her downstairs with the shadow of my anger. I sob as I run through my bed sheets reaching for my pillow to cover my face hoping it would flow back the tears into my eyes. But it was no help, it all run down to the earth.
The happiest day she could ever imagine, is the first day when she held me in her arms. It was her priceless joy and genuine happiness that completed her life. She was ready to do anything for me. It was her self-less love that she could only offer. From giving birth till I was raised up.
This is the first instance where I yell to her. It was just me. I always make this cute yell to her when I cry. (I couldn’t even utter a complete word) She bears it every time I yell to her. In the middle of every late night she woke up because of my random cries cause my diapers needs to be change. She endured those awful smell I take out just to make me clean. She does it every time with a smile on her face while I just keep on crying and crying without a care. It was sweet then.
I started my adolescent stage. A stage where I leap away from teasing playmates, scarred knees, bubble soaps and climbing trees. I collected my childhood and put it in a box and stack up in the attic.
And this time, the yelling became monstrous. It evolved. It was more furious. My voice echoed and blankets everything it touches. I got angry when she washed my clothes without my consent. When she put something on it and trying to do some remedy. When she suddenly cleaned my suffs and couldn’t find my things when I enter the room. I yell at her that she didn’t have to do it because it’ll just misplace my things and asking for my own privacy.
I never saw how she did everything because she cares for me. I never knew what she feels every time I did this. School stuff, relationships, social life everything is so messed up that when I got home I put the burden on her by yelling and pointing out wrong things she did. I never appreciate it rather just take it for granted.
I felt an aching, a guilt inside my heart. But it was for a short time. I forget about the feeling.
My life is at its limelight. I’m starting to weave my own story. But for her, probably, it’s her ending days. All she could do is to wrap it all up. These are the days she sits and sip a coffee or two waiting for her time.
This moment, yelling became different. Yes, I still yell at her. Guess I’m not tired doing it all the time. The yell is still full of anger but with sadness, regrets, and loneliness. I yell at her because I still want to spend good times with her. I regret how I yell to her at those moments. How I really felt when I slammed that door in front of her face and keep on knocking to open it up. I should have opened that door and ran into her arms, and let my fragile body wrapped by your loving hands.
I left her with the shadow of my warm love. Still sobbing, as I run through my bed sheets reaching for my pillow to cover my face hoping it would flow back the tears into my eyes. But it was no help, it all run down to the earth.
…Do it before it’s too late.