Porcelain swan

It must have been the summer of 1987. I know this because we are in our new house at 9 Jacaranda Drive, Mill Park. And it must have been summer because I can see the golden sun rays of the bright Aussie sun shining in to the kitchen window, bouncing off the reflective stainless steel fittings at the kitchen sink. My mother is standing next to it, preoccupied with her chores.

I approach her slightly, but stop a distance away at the kitchen bench. I lean against the bar stool, feeling the mustard coloured leather beneath my fingers. I'm barefooted, enjoying the coolness of the rubbery tiles in the family room. The sliding door is open, allowing the balmy breeze from the backyard to permeate through the fly screen that separates the hall from the garden, where there have been plenty of failed attempts at growing plum trees, lemon trees and whatnot. 

The television is on - it must be Sesame Street because it was a daily ritual to catch the puppets after school around three o'clock - but all I hear are muted sounds as I watch my mum at the kitchen sink. She doesn't notice me - her focus is on cleaning the dishes leftover from my afternoon tea. It's usually oatmeal porridge on days when she's uninspired and sometimes plain congee with canned pickles, preserved tofu or black bean sardines. Fried rice means she's energetic but also means dinner will be a smaller portion and lacking in variety.

I try to speak to her but she doesn't hear me. She turns, backfaces me, and walks to the kitchen stove. It looks as though she's preparing a meal for my baby brother, or maybe dinner before my father reaches home from work. I watch her in the kitchen, turning with such precision, avoiding the handles of pots and possible mishaps. Her movements are graceful, well-timed and it's almost as though she's doing a dance in a rightful kingdom where she belongs.

The phone rings and she prances over to answer it. I don't know who's on the other side of the line but she starts chatting and laughing wholeheartedly - her laughter ringing through my ears like the chimes of a triangle instrument, over and over again, soft and light yet sophisticated.

As I watch her move and listen observingly to the timbre of her voice, I become overwhelmed by her grace and femininity, an indescribable aura that exudes from just one woman. For that one moment, I thought to myself: "When I grow up, I want to be like her."

My school held a fete one day. Families had set up stalls that sold secondhand books, potpourri, candy floss, toys and other memorabilia. I chanced upon a silvery lavender coloured porcelain swan with a long neck. It was meant to hold coins as there was a black rubber stopper underneath it, but I saw that it'd make a rather nice ornament instead. The swan, to me, symbolised my mum - graceful, motherly, gentle. Without hesitation, I gathered all the coins I could from my coin pouch, barely having enough to purchase the porcelain swan for $5.

I hid it in my schoolbag and waited on the chapel porch for my mum to fetch me from school. When I arrived home, I reached into my backpack, eager to surprise her with a gift I thought was beautiful and represented her. As I pulled the transparent plastic box out, I saw, to my dismay, that the neck had given way and the swan was now broken into two. In that instant, I let out a cry and felt a hot stinging sensation in my eyes. 

My mum came over and comforted me, telling me that I'm such a silly girl and persuading me not to cry. She said she's touched that I would have thought of buying something for her. My tears flowed without hindrance and as they did, I told her that the swan represented her and I really wished for her to have it. I suppose I was so disappointed, I blocked my memories from what happened after. I don't remember what happened to the swan. It probably ended up in the bin. 

It's many years later now and I see her at the kitchen again, washing dishes at sink, looking pensive. She's 70 and her mane of black hair is now white. She has cut it short but it's still wavy. She looks tired now, yet still exudes a certain strength and certainty. I can see the wrinkles etched onto her face, whispering stories of unspoken emotions, pain, suffering and unconditional love. I must have seen her in a different lifetime, a different parallel because I am still 30 years old. 

Through this vision, I sense a certain courage, so I opened my mouth to say: "Please rest now. Let it go, let everything go."

She finally looks me in the eye, turns to me and says: "Please be happy. Don't be so hard on yourself; don't make the same mistakes I did. Look after yourself."

###

The imagery fades and I return light-hearted and warm. 

A dream I had one night reaffirmed my buried emotions for her and strained relationship we have. I dreamt she died. I was devastated, yet felt strangely strong because Bam was around to comfort me and provided me with emotional support. The next thing I knew, my mum resurrected and was looking for me to be by my side again.

I believe I've forgiven her, or at least am learning to because I remember I once told myself: "I want to be like her one day." And yet, I too said before that "I never want to make the same mistakes she has."

It has, in some way, became a self-fulfilling prophecy because yes, I am slowly becoming like her, but without the flaws which I hate so much, which have pushed me to the brink of insanity too often before. I know I have to let go of my state of mind, my deep resentment for her and my current inability to communicate like before. This crack has existed way too long but I am seeking ways to mend it before it's too late. 

Maybe someday, I'll surprise her again with a porcelain swan.