Watching my mother in the emergency room as she slept, it was obvious her body was desperate to claim its much-needed rest. Perhaps the long years of toil and hard work were starting to send the bill, demanding swift payment from her, just like the rest.
As I continued to look at her pale face, I tried to re-trace the old beauteous image that impressed me through the years. I recalled too her particular photo from high school I failed to preserve, along with her other memes of joy and tears.
And still reverberated were the usual verbal comment of my friends and enemies, if any, too. From elementary to high school to college, the words were the same, “Gwapa Nanay mo ‘no?”
My palm on her forehead, I asked myself while sitting on a monoblock chair beside her bed: from the day I was born until I got married, how many times did she watch me when I was sick?
I could not forget those repeated nights when I had a high fever and “nagdediliryo,” and I saw a great ball of fire coming in through the window. How I trembled and yelled “Nanaayy!” on the bed made of bamboo, and only after she touched, caressed and embraced me that my fear would let go.
Truly in this world, no other human love could perfectly match, much less surpass, a mother’s love. No, not even the love of those women who swore to you theirs were the best you could ever have.
As what Agatha Christie wrote eloquently: “A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.”
In any occasion, a mother’s love would rise above. Nothing’s better than that, save for our Savior’s love.
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