A Letter to Eve

May 10, 2009

Dear Eve,

Today the world celebrates the tie that binds us together. And somehow, it brings me to strange memories that I haven’t gone back in a while. Time has clearly set us apart. I have become a totally different person since then. I remember how I was once so attached to you; I’d almost die from crying every morning because I didn’t want you to leave for work. You were always away, coz you loved what you did more than anything else. Since your work demanded a lot from you, you often stayed late at the office, counting. As the numbers and figures grew in time, so then did our relationship slowly diminish. I remember sleeping with your shirt tucked in between my pillows. Your scent was my security in your repeated absence.

But it was never too late for you to change. I also remember how remarkably happy I was seeing you at home everyday. You said you resigned, because they were sending you away again. Every day since then, you’d send me off to school. You talked to my teachers about how I was doing and you took care of my school projects. You made me sandwiches that I gave away because the cheese had pimiento. You awarded me the first out of the twenty six medals I had in my entire life. I was three years old.

And then I was twelve. This time, I was leaving you. The first few months of my exile, I remember crying again because life was too uncomfortable for me to handle. I had to drag myself to school on my own, substituting your wake up calls with battery-operated noise-generating devices. As if that wasn’t enough, you’d call me Friday nights to tell me you bought my sister ice cream while I was forcing cup noodles down my throat.

Years passed and my constant grief became ordinary. I was so used to being away now that having you around somehow felt unfamiliar. In those years that I was in need, I built a wall founded on independence and emotional detachment to satisfy my own. I cannot keep on needing you, because my frustrations were bringing me down. In our occasional reunions, your stories about me were almost limited to the first twelve years of my life. Beyond that, I was a stranger.

Though there were efforts from you to reconnect, I just couldn’t bring myself back to the time when I needed you. I see you have become a different person yourself. I watched you drift away. Sometimes I am sorry for us. Most times I am sorry for me.

I know it is never too late for me to change. But until then, I will tread upon these shadows that your canopy casts, re-creating your life in stitches because I am no more than a repetition of your case. And I am scared, because somehow I didn’t like your life. I wish you had better children. I wish you had a better husband. I wish you had a better life because you are better than what you deserve.

Dear Eve. Sometimes you are my mother.

Always,

Your Daughter