Bumming

N likes to exaggerate. She said that my mother greets her with a wistful eye every time she comes back home from school (and I don't). As she said this, I felt a lump in my throat, water in my eyes. Certain forlorn images materialized in my head. I mentioned N's story to my mother yesterday who denied having looked at N with wistful longing in her eyes. She did laugh though and she said this: one day, all children will grow up and leave home. What I've realized about my mother is that she rarely answers my implied questions about her more difficult emotions. She resigns herself to the inevitable, but her resignation is charitable, full of peace, and she thinks more of me than of herself. My mother has never weeped over my leaving home.

It's been half a week since I've come back and all I've done is be a lazy bum. My mother lets me sleep in and sleep some more during the day between meals. When she went back to China last fall, my grandparents woke at 5am every morning and complained about her rising later than 7. They adhere steadfastly to the ethos of old proletarian days, including the idea that decent people should get up before the sun does. My mother is an insomniac and a light sleeper. The din of nearby karaoke bars vibrated up and down my aunt's apartment building where my mother stayed until early morning every day. So my mother lets me sleep. She tells me that she likes to spoil me because she's never been spoiled.