Light: A Mother’s Day Tribute
Kika Otiono
My mother is light.
There is no other word to describe it. Her grace is impenetrable, her faith unwavering. The word ‘love’ also seems inadequate for me to describe the bond I have with her. The way she rolls her eyes when I groan about school, constantly pulling and fixing my clothes, or wiping off something from my face.
My mother’s eyes squint when she laughs. My mother’s hands are deft when she is cooking. She cooks without hesitance, without a hint of amateurism. My mother’s pupils shine when she is teasing you. My mother is the expert of impressions—especially of hilarious commercials. My mother checks up on me countless times when I complain of a slight headache. My mother tells me when my makeup or my outfit looks horrible, even if my friends won’t.
It was my mother that first taught me that I should love myself, even when the image in the mirror is not a perfect fit to society’s expectations. She was the first one to teach me table manners, and the one who scolded me for months for forgetting to brush my hair (and still does). She is the only person to yell at me for doing something wrong, and in the same breath ask me if I’ve eaten that day. She is the first person I tell anything to, and I never skip over the juicy details.
Sometimes, I know that I forget she is human. That she not only has a full-time job in her office, but a full-time job at home too—taking care of me. I know that I sometimes forget that she has her own worries, fears, and anxieties. I sometimes forget that I am not her only responsibility. But I will always remember that she is my own personal superhero. My mother stays up with me in the middle of the night to go over questions and flashcards for my test—even if she has work the following morning.
When I say that my mother is light, I mean that she shines in the lives of everyone around her. That even in the darkest of moods, my mother is able to brighten up my day. And for all these things and more, my mother is my best friend. She laughs at my cheesy jokes, she proofreads my articles, and she listens to my random rants. And even if I drive her up the wall, even if I sometimes mess up the food, or I forget to clean my room—she never wavers in her faith or vivacity. I love her dearly, and I know that I am incredibly lucky to have her in my life, because my mother is light.