Mother

An imaginative composed by Brenalyn (Year 12 Advanced)

Twelve years and seventy-two days. 

It had been this long since the Shadow had bled from the Mother’s body, and it had become

a parasitic necklace coiled tightly around her neck. She had not chosen to expose her soul in such a way, and very quickly she found herself withering beneath its blackened limbs. But nevertheless, the Shadow clung to the Mother’s skin, and it remained as such throughout each ashen day; running its claws through her greying hair, spoon-feeding her meals with cold hands. 

At times, the line between Mother and Shadow became so blurred that when her Daughter reached for the Mother’s face and caressed her wrinkled cheek, the Shadow purred as if it could feel the warmth of her human hands. 

And her Daughter continued to caress her anyway, even when the Mother could only thank her with a small and silent smile. 

For twelve years and seventy-two days, it had been like this between Mother and Daughter and Shadow, living quietly in a foreign world that shimmered with porcelain skin and pastel eyes. The yelps of street vendors squatting along poverty-lined roads back home had faded swiftly behind them, silenced by the buzz of refined chatter drifting down from looming buildings that glowed above them.  

The people of London noticed the Shadow too, of course, but no one ever mentioned it. The cashier at the grocery store nodded patiently while the Mother's Shadow braided her tongue, and he did his best to carefully pick up the English words which fell clumsily from her brown mouth. The lady at the restaurant didn’t mind speaking slowly when the Shadow batted away her glossy English letters, muffling the Mother’s cold ears from comprehending the words, “Just fifteen pounds, Miss.” 

After a few of these years inaudibly smothered beneath a grey sky, the Mother noticed in dismay the way her Daughter’s limbs had changed and grown; how people climbed upon them in order to bridge the gap between themselves and the Mother. Each time the Shadowed woman mumbled out a question with a broken alphabet, her Daughter graciously rearranged those letters - polishing and cleaning them before handing them over on a silver platter met with a grateful “Ahh, I understand now.” She had mutely watched her grow from Mother’s Daughter to Mother's Translator.  

And although the Mother thought she did, the Daughter didn’t mind. Because while people strategically (but politely, always politely) chose to ignore that Shadow, her Daughter, without fail, always just saw it, understood it; she caressed its shifting cheek. 

“Mama,” she says now. The Mother is seated in the living room. The Shadow plays with her hair. Its shape is stark against the white walls and white ceiling, which enclose snugly around them both. 

Outside, the sun is growing tired behind the dirty window. 

“Mamaaa,” Her Daughter repeats as she bounces into the room, her small, faded slippers shuffling loudly across the wooden floor, “Look what I found!” She waves around a rose-gold rectangle in her hands. 

The Shadow doesn’t understand. 

“Ano iyon?” What’s that? The Mother asks faintly.

Her Daughter giggles. She plonks herself down on the dusty couch beside the Mother, her shining black hair swaying towards her Mother’s still hands. She opens the album between them. 

The Shadow peers inside. 

The photos are faded, but it’s clear who they’re showcasing. Even without her lined face or dimming skin, the Mother’s brown eyes are unmistakable; bright and shining, they gaze up at each of them from every rectangular frame. 

The Mother’s mouth opens. The Shadow flickers. 

Surrounded by white walls, the three see in the album a Mother eating meat and rice in the midst of sunny street markets; a Mother in blue scrubs with a stethoscope wrapped gently across her neck; a Mother in the middle of other Mothers and Fathers - her siblings in stained clothes, laughing together in a house too small for them all, each sharing those same brown eyes. 

The Daughter looks back up at her Mother hunched over beside her. 

The Mother is staring at herself. 

A pause. 

Then.

“Ako iyon.” Her Mother’s voice pierces the quiet. That’s me. 

The Shadow says nothing. 

Before the Daughter can reply, her Mother takes the corner of the album’s page in her wizened fingers and flips it, and they’re both met again with that same beautiful, glowing woman. She’s happy and whole and surrounded by faces which freckle shamelessly in the heat, with brown mouths that curve in the same way the Mother’s does; mouths that sculpt the same-shaped sentences, which lilt the same coloured words.  

The Mother does the same with the next page, and the next, and soon a smile begins to grow steadily across her face as she looks upon each photo of that unbroken, shadowless woman. And suddenly, she’s pointing and laughing, and she is no longer in a darkening living room with a shadow clamped over her mouth, but instead she’s inside the photos; inside each sunlit story which now flows in unwavering Tagalog from her mouth, singing symphonies into her Daughter’s ears. 

The shadow, meanwhile, is melting from the Mother’s skin. Its black hue is becoming blurred between the lines of her hair and the darkness of the night outside. 

The Mother’s laughter continues on.