It is almost a year since my mother died. I am holidaying with my family in China. We were in Beijing at the summer palace rebuilt by the dragon empress - a fearsome regent for the last couple of childling emperors. She was a tiger mama if ever there was one! In a dragon boat on the lake, the air was thick & we were in a cocoon, not able to see the shore. It was hot but the breeze was cool. I was drawn to all the mothers with their children. No surprises there! They appeared almost heavenly against the glowing white of the hazy sky & I was a brief intruder into their intimacy.
“That’s the thing about Chinese mothers: hidden behind their maternal expectations and critical diatribes are women who will fight to the death for you.― Kaitlin Solimine, Unsavory Elements: Stories of Foreigners on the Loose in China
“My mother’s dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me.” ― Brenda Sutton Rose
I too am a mother, but even when I need to, I can no longer just be a daughter. This duality was precious. I miss my mum.