A momentary bliss

"Do you want me to go to graduation?" I asked my mother. "Cause I sure as hell don't."

Okay. So the expletive wasn't in the original moment— but I went ahead and added it in my retelling anyways— for extra effect. (In fact, I think it does its job quite well, so can you really blame me?)

Her eyes widen at the question; and at that moment, a plethora of thoughts raced my mind. I had never regretted a mistake faster than I did then (at least— from what my lacking brain can remember). 

Since I was little—back when distance was measured in footsteps and handprints and cracks in the sidewalk—my mother had always been there. Better yet, when was she ever not? I recall times when her presence was too much: overbearing, intrusive, and oh so permanent. And although I usually don't give people the benefit of the doubt, I'll make the exception for my questionable self and shall dismiss it as mere accounts of her being a teenager, a snobby, ungrateful, spoiled teenager. 

So to be honest, I sort of don't mind her always being there; and I won't ever as long as I know they won't be forever. Her back-seating me in the passenger seat as I drive, her taking hold of my hand when I splay it out in front of her knowing exactly what it is that I want, her bringing life to my penguin with her broken (but understandable) English (something I feel the need to reciprocate), our smiles as we make eye-contact, our tiring of the syllables of  'I love you's. (Please know it's true, I do love you., and you know, for the number of times it's thrown around the house, I can confidently say it hasn't lost its meaning— if anything— it's only been adding up.)

"Go to your graduation!" she said, in Vietnamese (cause I don't think her English will be this grammatically correct for a long while). 

"Yes, of course, it'll be the happiest moment of my life."

Who ever knew that it was possible to become even more regretful of something? Cause I sure as hell didn't. And I was proven otherwise. 

My mother didn't see graduation the way I had perceived it. It wasn't really the mispronounced names, the 'everyone looking their best and then there's you', the hundreds of sweating teenagers within a 1— 2(?)— mile radius of each other, the same congratulations heard over and over— that— at the end of the day, you no longer feel the excitement from the word anymore, (and if you're in 2020-21) the fear of the coronavirus (but graduation is more than half a year away, and it's just really me being pessimistic— but I do have a valid reason to be). It was the fact that I was graduating; with said event marking the end of my 12-year trek, her daughter becoming an adult (paying taxes and all that)— and as much as I dislike the idea of it— I was growing up. 

So yes, I'll (unwillingly) go to the damn event. (But a note to all the high schools: why don't we all sit around a table and discuss a possible alternative, yeah?)

I cried. After my mother had said what she said, I bawled my eyes out— and she did too. A lot of things were unsaid, but I think I prefer it that way; there wasn't really a need to exhaust your voice if the other person already knows what you're thinking. 

As her hand reached out to mine—splayed out and all— meeting it midway, I felt all the problems in the world, all the worries of tomorrow, all the uncertainty for the future didn't really matter anymore. 

They didn't really matter at all.