I want to be my mother’s mother

During the interview of author Georgi Gospodinov at the Louisiana Literature festival this month, he declared that, “your sense of childhood dies the moment the last person who remembers you as a child dies,” referring to the death of his father. And amongst him, my mother, and hundreds of other guests, my eyes had drowned in tears that pooled all the way down to my throat.

When I turned twenty-five, I had asked my parents, “When did you first feel like an adult?”

My mother had paused, opened her mouth, and paused once again. Finally, she spoke, “When your grandfather died. His death, the moment I realised I had lost both my parents, I knew I was an adult, and no longer a child.”

Her words had struck me so deeply that I had been speechless. Unable to respond in any way that would offer comfort, confirmation or understanding. I had no way to relate to her, and didn’t want to pretend otherwise. The thought of even pretending seemed painfully simple. How could I?

I do not remember much of my grandmother. Not her life, not her death. I do however remember my grandfather. I remember that in his last years, his memory began slipping away. First with small details, then details even smaller. Being so young, I couldn’t understand how such a big man could forget anything small. I finally understood when he forgot me.

It was all very gradual. He lost the memory of his daughter’s birthday, then memories with his daughter, then all memories that he had a daughter. Slowly, my mother began returning the care of her childhood. She helped him get dressed, helped him eat, helped him shave, helped him laugh, helped him feel safe. Slowly, she became every bit of the parent she had once had, and then more. His daughter, my mother. My mother, his mother.

I want to be my mother’s mother, not through an urge to retell her childhood, but instead an urge to uphold it. I wish I could bring out her wander, her innocence, her bursts. I wish I could quiet her understanding, her experience, her responsibilities. I wish I could answer her questions, ease her burdens, and anchor her memories.

I wish she would remain a daughter just as she remains a mother. In times such as these, the concept of motherhood feels all encompassing, all suffocating. Women are considered motherly without a child. Considered mothering without one. Our bonds with siblings, cousins, friends are mapped out and applied to possible future scenarios. Our wombs are forgotten, our uteruses left behind. Our behaviours become scrutinised, extended, stretched out. All that is seen interpreted.

She’ll be such a good mother! She’s so good with children! She’s so caring, so responsible.

All things told to a child.

I wish my mother could forget being a mother for an instance. I wish that she were not reminded of it, not even by my smile when greeting her. I wish she felt just as much a daughter as she does a mother. I wish I could make her feel just as much a daughter as I do a mother. I wish.

Love,

Anastasia

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