Flowers for Mother

It was in the middle of a major physics subject that my silenced cell phone vibrated and flashed a call. I took the unregistered call. It was brief and dry: immediate instructions to identify a body in the city’s morgue.

When I arrived, the official advised me that it would be best to first try to identify the personal belongings. If these were not helpful, I could then attempt to identify the body. The face and the body, they informed me, were mangled beyond recognition by the train.

It didn’t take long to recognize the very familiar objects: the pair of glasses—surprisingly intact—the dark old-fashioned thick-framed type; the emerald bracelet she would only wear for important occasions; the golden swan-shaped brooch that belonged to a grandmother many generations back. All these unmistakably belonged to a woman who could be no one else but my mother.

“How did she die?” I didn’t bother to look at the morgue attendant who was routinely filling up forms.

“Suicide,” was his indifferent reply. Perhaps, because committing suicide is common in my country.

I continued to examine the other objects. They clearly revealed that mother went out wearing her best before she took her own life.

“Can you identify the woman?” the attendant impatiently asked. He was obviously in a hurry to do other more important things.

“Yes, she is my mother. All these are her belongings.” I picked up the silver necklace that still had some stains of dried blood.

“Her name?” the man asked.

“Irene . . .”

The man’s eyebrows narrowed as he read another form to verify the name. He shook his head, and to my surprise said, “That is not her name!”

* * *

Why did it take her tragic and mysterious death to find out that she was not my real mother? I read page after page of the documents that belonged to my foster mother. Despite what I was reading, I could not erase from my head . . . my heart that she was my mother.

The files revealed that she adopted me when I was less than a year old. There was no way of tracing who my real mother was. I could not keep myself from asking: “Why did she take her life? She was one of the happiest persons I have ever known in my life.”

But it was a waste of time to ponder on these questions. I had to move on with my life now, but without mother.

Neighbors learned about the sad news and extended their condolences. I expressed my gratitude to all of them, but none of their compassion could heal the newly opened wound within me: being motherless.

After her cremation, the lawyer informed me that she had left a will. Irene—I will never get used to calling her that name—left me a considerable amount of money that would be more than enough to see me through college. But money could not buy the answers for the questions in my heart.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could have prompted her to do such a thing. Clearly, she had her reasons. And even if I found them, they wouldn’t change life’s direction.

This filled me with a sense of peace, as though she were assuring me that her actions were not prompted by anything I had done or said. Still, loneliness is not a man’s best companion.

* * *

In my country, we honor our departed ones by laying flowers on their grave or at the temple to the gods who have custody over the dead. We also have a custom of returning to the place where the person died and place the flowers on the “departure spot.”

I asked the police about the location where mother had jumped. None of them could really agree as to where the exact place was. I thought that I could maybe figure it out by myself.

I was wrong. It seemed things happened too fast. Mother jumped without anyone seeing or noticing. Perhaps, the driver would know. But that would be too complicated. I then meandered for some time trying to find a place to lay the flowers for mother.

Unable to locate her departure point, I decided to leave the station. I was disappointed and aimlessly walked through the streets still holding the bouquet of fresh roses.

* * *

I could not say how, but there I found myself in front of a church. I had never been inside one. As a boy, when Mom and I would return from our weekly family picnic in a nearby the park, I saw people slowly coming out of the church on Sundays.

Bing! Clang! Bing! The soft chimes of a bell of a nearby church seemed to beckon me to enter. I entered.

There were very few people inside. An old woman was lighting candles, similar to offering incense, before an imposing morbid statue of a man nailed to a cross—this was their god. There was a janitor cleaning the marble floor dotted with wax and bird droppings.

I sat down on the last pew, closest to the entrance where the shadows within and the light outside played tag. I don’t recall how long I spent inside until an elderly man, called a priest, tapped me gently on the shoulder and asked, “Are you waiting for anyone, young man?”

Till then I didn’t realize how strange I must have appeared: a sad-looking young student sitting alone, holding a bouquet of fresh moist red roses.

I said I wasn’t and that I just needed to be “alone.” But I felt there was something different about this man, this priest. His smile radiated a gentle sensation of meekness, compassion and understanding.

“Then for whom are these wonderful roses?” he asked.

“For my mother who just passed away,” I replied.

“You must love her very much,” he said.

I must have been so anxious to tell someone about what I felt for Mother. And without any word from that priest, I began telling him everything that had happened. How I wanted to lay these flowers on the spot where my Irene died.

“How should one cope with such sorrow in life?” I asked. “How will I know that she was even happy? Or if she’s happy now.”

“Do you see that statue over there?” he asked.

“Yes, the woman with extended hands,” I observed.

“Yes, it represents Mary. We call Her Mother, and because She really is. In fact, She was given to us to be our Mother here on earth and later in heaven.”

“I cannot understand any of that,” I replied.

“I know,” he replied. “I am not asking you to believe. All that I suggest is that you lay the flowers at Her feet and ask Her to give them to your mother.”

He stood up to leave. “I will pray for you and your mother. If you wish to talk again some other time, you know I will be always here.”

I bowed with gratitude at this sincere gesture. I was alone once again and felt a little relieved for having been able to share what burdened my spirit. I looked at the statue that the priest had pointed to.

Standing up, for reasons unknown, I approach the statue of the woman. It seemed to call to me. As I admired the simple workmanship, it seemed to have the hands extended asking me to give her the flowers.

I was reluctant, feeling it was a silly thing to do. I rectified and followed the priest’s advice. I placed that roses at her feet and from my heart said a silent prayer: “Dear woman, lady, Mother . . . kindly give these flowers to that kind woman who was my mother for eighteen years.”

* * *

Years have passed since that encounter with Mary. Every week, on the day that mother died, I would never miss placing flowers at the feet of Mary’s statue. She mysteriously filled me with confidence, peace and joy.

It was much later, with the help of the priest, that I began to learn who She really was. One day, I became Her son. And with greater assurance I felt She was taking care of my mother. More than this, I had found my Mother, that She was and would take care of me, Her son.