This Way About Her

I woke up this morning to the sound of Julia Child harping on the beauty of her guest chef's fennels.

In slow motion, I stretched and punched and kicked off the sheets and slumber that clung to me. My humanness awakened with me, my stomach beginning to rumble and my mouth starting to feel dry. As I finished my reenactment of the Matrix, my mom came in. She hugged me and told me to get ready. We were going to visit a neighbor.

My mom is the pinnacle of poise. The epitome of elegance. She exudes a gracefulness so exact and still that it couldn't cause a ripple in a lake or a wrinkle in a blouse. If she were a superhero, this would definitely be her introduction narrated over the fanfare... or, maybe cut the fanfare. Ladies don't do fanfare.

After making some snarky remarks at Julia (which I had to take back and apologize for) and throwing on a bleach-splattered tee, my mom and I got together a paper bag of fruit and were on our way. With her arm in mine, we strolled down the sidewalk. I could feel her secret thoughts and prayers pulsing against my side, as her heart talked to God.

At the doorstep, I tucked my hair behind my ear, straightened my back to be parallel with my mom's. We waited. After no reply to the doorbell and our knocking, I touched my mom's shoulder and whispered "it's okay", turning to leave with the bag of fruit. But she stayed and took out her phone.

I could hear the ringing echo inside the house. It wasn't until then, that I realized how quiet it was inside, and how vast and empty it seemed. The ringing sailed throughout the home, until it was suddenly interrupted by a small, sweet voice. In Tagalog, the woman spoke with my mother and said her husband would get the door.

He greeted us with a grin and weary eyes. He guided us in and to the room, his hands always hanging a bit in front of him, as if never out of position to serve and to hold. Looking at the high ceilings, plants and paintings, I noticed the house felt... heavy. Or rather, there was a heaviness within the home. I'll always know that feeling. It's this phenomenal vacuum that seems to be ever-expanding and ever-consuming. I'll never forget how no matter how many people were visiting us at our house, the walls felt like they were going to crash inwards or burst outwards at any time. I'll never forget how throughout that whole summer, I could never sleep enough, nor be awake enough. I'll never forget how it felt like Everything had my tiny heart in His hand, holding it tight enough that it couldn't breathe, but soft enough that it couldn't die.

She offered us a weak smile, lying in a shroud of mismatching blankets. Her room was scattered with half-empty mugs and bead-strewn statues. I returned her smile and quietly sat at the edge of the bed, petting the dog and joining it in invisibility.

My mom leaned in to speak to her at her bedside. In their dialect, I made out what seemed to be small conversation about children and college. My comprehension fluctuates; usually I can translate a little, other times I can understand a little more than little. At best, I can speak English with the born-and-bred accent and find out the when-, where-, and what-details of dinner. I've always wanted to learn and be fluent, but I probably won't be anytime soon if I don't start saying "I will be..."

Suddenly, my mom started talking about something. I couldn't understand the words she was saying, but I could feel her heart. She sat there, not holding her Bible, but her Bible holding her. I watched her as she offered the sick woman strength, as she extended her peace. She lay there repeating "Salamat, salamat..." The burdening weight in the room, in the home, seemed to melt like snow as she spoke. I watched my mother in pride and love as she held that woman with her voice.

One word she had said seemed to stick to me. She used it several times, and when she did she said it so richly and sweetly. Walking home, I asked her what it meant. I told her it sounded like "Jos" with a strong "juh" sound. She told me she was saying "Dios", meaning "God". Of course, I thought. For every time she used that word, it seemed to kiss her lips as it left them. At the declaration of it, love became more visible. Hope became more real.

My mom's scared of things. She gets tired. She has a past, just like all of us. And she holds onto her posture, her refined walk, her famously smooth and perfect voice (which I refer to as her radio voice), just as we hold onto things. I believe my mom is so beautiful, in so many ways. But in the hands and will of her God, I realize that she's ravishing.