It was four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was still high at
this time of the month of June. For her, it was the end of another day and the
beginning of another. Soon the kids would be home, bringing with them the whole
day in their dusty shoes, torn papers and sometimes pride, assignments and few
fights.
As a dutiful mother, she had prepared drinks and cookies or
whatever she fancied to prepare for them; to let them know that she
cares…really cares than any of their classmates’ mothers. Soon enough, the kids
came. She dropped the “Woman with an Alabaster Jar”, a book she was starting to
read. She opened the door and greeted them. The six year old girl kissed her on
the lips lightly, a sign of affection that she never outgrown. The girl was her
spitting image according to their friends and relatives; though she never
objected, she denied it secretly. She was prettier than her, except that the
latter was more affectionate and confident even at a young age. Her eight year
old son was reserved and has the composure of an academic, like his father.
Nevertheless, she preferred him to be athletic and a little brusque. The father
was both. She wondered if the boy could survive life’s jungle.
As the kids did their assignment while having snacks, she went
to the kitchen and prepared dinner. At 7:30 in the evening, the kids were fed
and ready to bed. Her husband would be home at 8:00. She would eat supper with
him. When her husband came, another fleck of outside world entered her domain.
He always had something new to tell; the stupid students, the discussions, they
had about economy, the new president, even about God. She listened and made
some opinions. Then they discussed the kids’ day at school, but not her day at
home. Anyway, what was new to her? The brand new laundry soap or the new recipe
she learned from a TV show? Not much of interest.
Their modest bungalow in that quiet neighborhood was the symbol
of her domestication. Domesticated, she hated the word. It reminded her of the
times she mocked the women who chose families over their careers. Yet she ended
like one of them. She secretly envied those women working in the offices. They
were dim-witted anyway, never knowing anything beside their monotonous work,
she thought, a defense mechanism that she built for herself, knowing that she
could be better if she was out there in the world. Well, I chose to stay home
because I couldn’t find a job that suited my schedule with the kids. The kids
reason again! And besides, the husband provided everything.
At thirty, she felt like a retiree who was always waiting for
the afternoon. She fell into a troubled sleep, tired of arguing with her inner
self. As she was in the realm of sleep, she felt her husband’s hands feeling
her body. She moaned, not of pleasure but of protest, yet she did not admonish
him. He kissed her lips, down…Her husband was a great lover she thought before,
always asking if he pleased her. She always said yes, feigning pleasure most of
the time, afraid that she would disappoint him if she said otherwise. Making
love was not appealing to her anymore. Maybe she needed a sex therapist. But
she never had the chance to see one.
Many afternoons passed and the kids were all grown-up. The son
went to become a geologist and the daughter a biologist. The daughter went to
the same university abroad that taught her God was not a man. Then, it was the
two of them again, a wife and a husband; doing things she did when the kids
were at home. During those times, she buried herself in reading and amused
herself once again with the stories of her childhood or dreamed again of a
life-long desire of traveling to France to visit the mystical Roslyn Chapel; to
see for herself the Holy Grail and ask for miracle.
Occasionally, she and the husband spent vacations. She did not
enjoy much anymore. She found it too late to explore the outside world.
Domesticity seemed to be in her system that she could not ward it off
completely even though the husband urged her to pursue whatever she really wanted
to do. But she did not remember anymore what she really wanted. She was very
afraid to think of it because she stopped dreaming.
The April afternoon sun was still lingering a little more. The
air was festive in the Church. It was the wedding day of the daughter. The
daughter was marrying a seemingly perfect man that suits her type, adventurous,
intelligent, gentle, and loving. Could such characteristics be fitted into one
man? After the wedding the couple would fly to France. The daughter married a
Frenchman. Of all countries, why France? Fate mocked her enough. Now, she
remembered that everything she really wanted in life happened to her daughter.
She was weeping. Not because she envied her daughter. But because everything
came back to her; their childhoods, the broken knees and promises, mending
hearts and kissing away of tears. She cried because she felt something was
lost. Her life? Her dreams? She wept because time passed and she never realized
until today.
She felt a strong hand lovingly caressing her back. She turned
to her husband. He motioned her to enter the church. She held his arms tightly,
afraid that she would be lost in the happiness that pervaded the atmosphere.
The ceremony was over. Time for picture-takings, hugs, kisses and best wishes. She
wished the young couple all the best in life. Did she ever receive such
wonderful wishes on her wedding day? Maybe. She just could not remember
anymore. It had been 30 years anyway.
Then she whispered to her daughter, “Will you let me visit you
in France?”
“Why, of course, Mother.”
[EUNICE
BARBARA C. NOVIO]
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