A Love That Remembers

She used to feed me, joking that I ate too much; now we aid her during meals as we marvel at how she enjoys the food lovingly prepared by my sister especially for her.

- RICARDO T. PAMINTUAN

On Mother's Day, we honor the women who raised us, who knew how to turn leftovers into feasts and lullabies and fairy tales into therapy. These are the women who gave us everything, even to the point of self-deprivation. You've probably heard it before: "Isusubo na lang, ibibigay pa sa 'yo." ("Just about to put it in their mouth, but they still give it to you.")

We celebrate their lives with feasts, presents, flowers, cards, calls and memories. But what happens when the mothers we love no longer remember?

I once attended a vigil for a friend's mom. She had lived a quiet life, or so we thought, until eulogies revealed otherwise: stories of strength, sacrifice, and a legacy of love. A seemingly ordinary woman, it turned out, had been extraordinary all along. Still, many mourned how she had "faded away" because of Alzheimer's.

Earlier that same day, I had visited my own mother Otilia, now 89. Her face lit up when I walked in—not because she recognized me as her son, but because she thought I was her younger brother. She called me by his name with such joy that I didn't correct her. Why would I? Joy is joy. Recognition is a bonus.

She wasn't always like that. COVID-19 somehow sped up her mind's decline faster than she could shout "Pong!" in her mahjong-playing days. Still, her smile remains, and it's infectious. Her hands, once busy counting money (she was the company treasurer) or feeling mahjong tiles, now struggle with simple tasks like holding utensils. She may no longer know me, but I know she feels me. And perhaps, that's the more important kind of knowing.