My Mother

Years ago, I remember my mother climbing ladders and painting the ceiling in our old house in Bahrain, I am not sure where she got the paint from, it was dark green, and so glossy that we reflect on the ceiling like a mirror. She would also paint the walls, stitch our clothes, cook delicious and mouth watering dishes, make loufas, does facial hair threading for people and tailors clothes for others and of course puts a value on her products and sells them. We would be sitting around her to do our home work, she would have a look at our notebooks, and hits us with the stick that was always next to her singer machine if we dont do our home work right. Of course we only found out that she is illiterate after many years later! To me, I never thought of this until I saw her at the hospital with her knee being operated on, that was a month ago, and since then I have been thinking of my mother, and idolising her, I think that it doesn’t really matter how much one studies, and how much we learn, life can be sufficient to teach you things. There were 13 of us, her children that is, most of us are now either holders of bachelors or masters degrees, and if one of us did not complete his or her studies she frowns on us as if we had committed a sin.

The thing is, if my mum who is illiterate can achieve this in life, why are other people living in utter poverty?

I love you mother.

Looking at her now wondering around her house with the steel walker, I feel really sad that we allowed her to have bad knees for such a long time. So my kids, look after me, as us women never think of ourselves when we have kids.