remake/remodel

mom

Some thoughts about my mother. In every photo that I have of her, there she is, with that smile, brilliant with love. But she is often sad, too, often reticent, guarded. I see her face in other women sometimes, at the bus stop, driving past me, standing in line at the grocery. I see their faces, relaxed into neutral expresions of sadness, and I want to race to a phone, to tell her that I’m not far. I remember her sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, writing letters, or reading the red, white, and blue air mail letters from home. I remember her collecting toy cars and tennis shoes into parcels to be sent home, driving with her to the post office. I also remember her coming home from work — angry and bewildered because a customer needed somebody who spoke English — my mother who speaks and writes in two languages, my mom of a family where it was not unusual to know three or more. I remember my friends in grade school asking me if my mom ate dog meat. “My mom likes curry,” I tried to explain. I remember my friends from only a year ago, not even realizing how much that hurts. I remember friends from junior high asking why my mom had to work at a Pizza Hut, and before that, a Schlotzsky’s. I remember liking sandwiches and pizza, that being good enough. But I also remember nuoc mam, cha gio, rice soup, chicken curry stew, ca phe sua. I remember her turning around and crying when I first left for Austin. I remember her never being sick a day of her life. I remember her then as now, sometimes tired, but never beaten, always impossibly generous.

My mother tested positive for hepatitis four years ago. For as long as I can remember, she has never been ill. She probably contracted the disease from a blood transfusion while giving birth to my little brother. After a year of difficult treatment, she is showing no traces of the disease, thank goodness. There is no adequate means of conveying the relief, and my love.