Love to your mothers.

This evening, I rummaged through stacks of family documents to find a paper my brother needs. This is always an unwelcome task because it means I have to leaf through my parents' files. I have to see their handwritings, their transcripts, their death certificates. Understandably, whenever I have to find something from this pile, I try to find it as quickly as I can, retrieve it, and just hide everything again.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find the document right away and had to shuffle through every folder. I found our birth and baptismal certificates and my siblings' grade school report cards (for some reason, only theirs). There was also the "business proposal" my sister and I sent my parents when we were in college. We wanted to start a café and drafted the layout and made the menu. It was mostly made for fun and we deliberately made it look seriously professional as a joke. It was amazing that it was there filed away with the documents from their old businesses.

The most heartbreaking find for me was the printed emails. The summer I spent away from home to complete an OJT and a special project for a professor, I regularly sent emails to my family. I sent it to my brother's email but addressed it to everyone. Apparently, my brother printed the emails for my mother to read and she kept them. It was surreal to read my words. To me, they were not worth keeping. They were just inane words from this clueless kid who kept rambling about software projects, cool teleconferencing equipment, and laundry costs. Every email also seemed to have reassurances to my mother that I wear clean and decent clothes and that sneakers are allowed in the workplace. Her replies must have always been concerns about how I presented myself outside university.

Even now, almost five years of being totally on my own, I still hear my mother's words and reminders in my head. I am reminded of her in the little things she taught me -- like being polite to service staff or not making a mess in the kitchen when cooking. I feel her guidance in the more significant things as well. When I am forced outside my comfort zone, I seek courage in the thought that my mother would have wanted me to grow. When I feel like wallowing in depression, I would imagine my mother being disappointed at me for not making the most out of a very blessed life.

Her voice has become an extension of my conscience. She is no longer with me but I am still led by her upbringing. She gave so much of herself to us that twenty-seven years of being her daughter has provided me more than enough love and guidance to sustain me for the rest of my life. I will keep coming back to it, like a well that never runs dry.

If you are still able to actually hear your mother's voice not just in your head or in your memories, be grateful. I hope you find time to hug her or call her today.

Love to your mothers. Cheers.