Mai, here and there

Waiting… getting used to Mai’s absence. She finally arrives from Italy and leaves me waiting all over again when she leaves to return with Andrea, her husband, the man with a girls’ name, to Florence.

Happy-sad, or bittersweet: this must be how mothers of overseas workers feel. Every time my daughter comes to town, I am determined to relax and chat with her for some time. I do. Yet time is elusive and too fast. We laugh. We read together. We lie down beside each other; just the feeling she’s beside me warms my heart.

The same is true with Andrea. I haven’t had too much time to converse with him because he falls asleep on the sofa of the master’s bedroom watching TV. The last time I saw him long enough was when he was with the boys, my other sons-in-law, Jojo and Dodot, talking about Benetton and Segue golf bags during that crazy "coup planning" night.

* * *

Today, I tidy up Mai’s room for her next visit this April. At least, it’s only a month-and-a-half away after her five-day visit in Manila. I take in a whiff of her Joe Malone perfume, the orange scent she’s left behind; but its owner is incommunicado on a flight to Florence. I see memos to herself like I jot down reminders to do daily. "Call Fides, go for fitting, call Burlington, Manong Louie. Check Ate Liaa’s bag. Go to the bank." I peek at the window and the unusual March shower and its breeze match a little of my gray mood. I think mothers must be very sacrificing. We are! We let our children do what they want to be fulfilled and to progress on their own, and who knows, one day, to support us emotionally and even financially. We sacrifice for our children’s good, but their leaving home to far away places make us apprehensive: "What if she’s sick, disappointed?" Parents worry, but amazingly children manage.

* * *

Mai’s bed is made up now as though she never lay on it. Hangers, shoe boxes stacked in an orderly fashion have given way to open spaces free to walk on now without fear of stumbling over them and accidentally hurting a toe. Her newer fashion magazines are in her bathroom stacked neatly again. Her bookshelves have been replenished with her hardbound novels and spy thrillers once evacuated from Manila to Florence. There are new ones brought from Florence to Manila. To Andrea’s neverending amazement, Mai is a devout nightly reader in bed and on transatlantic journeys.

* * *

My thoughts would also drift to Mai and shopping in Hong Kong, when dollar rates were lower and I was a younger mom. Under the rain, in spite of the wetness, Mai, China, Pin, Mikee, and I walked from streets to buildings. Hong Kong could never be perfect without the girls. Walking by a glass window at the Mandarin Hotel, Mai said, "Oh Mom, I like that," pointing to a tiny dainty sapphire and diamond necklace. Everyday for five days my 12-year-old would say, "Wow, how nice." On the sixth day, I brought her into the store and put it around her neck. Would you believe the universe conspired with Mai’s determination to own it?

* * *

Today, in her room, I turn to her dresser. On the left side is her discarded makeup. "Creams again." I can see Mr. Zini marvel. I collect them to put inside Tupperwares. Try storing makeup inside Tupperwares. You can see through the plastic easily. Her underwear isn’t hanging in the bathroom to dry. They’re folded now inside her drawers that’s marked "bras and panties." I miss her already and she’s just been gone an hour.

My early Starbucks coffee partner is a 28-year-old woman set to live her life in a foreign country! Amen. "In two years, I will have babies. Mom, Italians love the sun like I do and there’s no need for stockings. Tanned legs are better." I smile. I would follow her anywhere if I could but under an umbrella!

* * *

Thinking it’s never a good-bye between mommies and children, I say to myself, "It’s March; I saw her! And then I say, "See you in April…" And after April, I think it’s Inshallah, "I’ll see you in December…" and hoping time runs faster. Then on the other hand no(!) because I’ll be one year older, too.

After one injured toe from stumbling over Mai’s luggage on the floor and again this time another painful thud over huge stacks of papers with drawings of actual lifesize future Segue bags, the mess is gone. Still, I smell Mai’s orange-scented perfume in her room. I miss her and I hate to admit her room’s lovely and neat again.