A Mother’s Day
The day I worked a double shift happened
to fall on the same day as Mother’s Day.
Celebration was more like a day of revelation
because today I’m supposed to be the one who
gives my mother her flowers. I’m supposed to
mother my mother, as if I’ve mothered before.
I think she’d suck her teeth at the sight of
these flowers, but say thank you anyway.
Like flowers are going to do it?
“Flowers eventually wilt,” I think she’d think
to herself. My mother despises when things never last,
and she’s right. How can I give my mother her flowers?
Especially when my Mother's Day consists
of frequent back pain that led to two surgical
procedures? The first one was in 2023.
I think the sharp pain in her left shoulder
was her body’s response to the overused batteries
she stored inside herself. Seven pairs to be exact.
Her seven kids be the batteries that kept her going.
Mommy’s arms be the monkey bars they grasp
and swing upon, and her mumus pulled and tugged
like climbing rope. My siblings kept her jungle gym
running 24/7, but the ruckus be her lifeline.
The hours I spend on my two feet don’t compare to
the hours of my Mother’s Day. The ones where she be
the last one to go to bed, and the first one up with a
6 AM call time.The clacking of her mismatched flip-flops
indicated the start of her day. As she drenched
the floor with lemon scented Mr clean, a trail of
cinnamon dust and Froot Loops would always find her.
She cleans up the messes she never made.
During recovery, she barely followed the doctor’s
orders because she had no choice but to get better.
It was in her nature to build walls out of sticks
and stones. Her aches never hurt as long as she stood.
Little did I know, my mother’s pain lasts
throughout the week. A year later, the batteries
in her right shoulder just couldn’t keep up.
No wonder why she needed surgery in the first place.
The surge became took a toll on her shoulders,
so eventually the energy bypassed all throughout her
body till she short-circuited, and despite the damage,
she’ll put a band-aid over the wounds.
Treat them as if she can put tape where the
remote cover is supposed to be.
She’ll tolerate the pain, even if it kills her.
Don’t worry. After her tumultuous week,
my mother's weekends be 24 hours of sleep.
She manages to sleep through the endless
screeching and YouTube short compilations on the couch.
I bet the torment be her call to prayer.
Our calls and her prayers keep us
going and going. And I don’t even know what to say.
Thank you? Do I thank you every day?
Before I leave for work, or when
I come home late? I say thank you
on this day, and I feel like I just
undid your stitches. I just disposed your
batteries, and I have the nerve to complain
all day about this double I just worked.
My Mother’s Day be the days she don’t ever
get for herself, her batteries never be her own
to change. My Mother’s Day be a matriarch's battle cry.
It be her mother, and the mothers before her
who have always been on the clock non-stop,
my Mother’s Day be generational. I wonder
who convinced a generation of mothers that
they can never catch a break. I wonder what
my mother’s full recovery would look like.
While your workday awaits you, I'll be at work.
Probably won’t think too much about it.
Home is where you prepare to work a double
every day, and you don’t complain about your
endless shifts. Because without you, there is
no home to return to. It was when you finally
clocked out, I realized every day is Mother’s Day.
Written By Aisatou Saho