Flower on...

Mom, I hate you, I don't love you, I don't even like you, Mom, Mom... hello..." I could only hear a stupid, broken tone on the phone. I think I really do love my Mom, though. In any case, only the worst words escape my throat, for all the days, months, years of humiliation I once endured. For the hurtful words and actions, for the lack of everything I needed back then. For the thorns that I still feel so deeply, even today, even though I can't feel them directly anymore, and the past painful moments are just memories. Mom, Mom—these words wake me up many times a year, and I can't free myself from them. It's not that I'm unhappy, it's not that things aren't working out, but I can't—I probably will never break through and forgive. Not for what happened back then...

Mom, Mom—when I hear my daughter's voice, I'm already there, hugging her, kissing her, whispering everything that's beautiful to me in this world. Will she ever understand me, will she be like me, different, or perhaps completely unlike me? How can I explain so many inexplicable things to her? She will grow up every day, learning new things with every passing moment, and I will probably inherit many of her behaviors from me. As she matures, she will dislike me, scream, be offended, sulk, run away, even hate me at times, but I will be calm because she will love me, respect me, and protect me from dangerous situations that will pose a threat to her. I will then watch from the sidelines, sometimes I will be offended, sometimes I will calmly explain, sometimes I will dislike her because her words will hurt me, but I will be calm because I will be certain that this is how it has to be, that I will live to see the day when only a smile of apology for the big and small mistakes of childhood will remain on her face, along with a sincere and true mother-daughter friendship filled with love and mutual respect. I smile because I know it will come one day; I am calm.

Sometimes I may have doubts, even a little at night, in my mind I'm afraid that things will be completely different, that I won't see the gratitude on her face for all those years of being close, in the moment when she needs me most in the world, and I'll be sitting next to her and calmly listening to failures that won't be failures, sadness that's far from being sadness, problems that would like to be problems, dilemmas that don't resemble any other.

But I'm also afraid of something else. I'm more afraid for myself, that when she needs me as a companion for a few years, I won't fulfill myself. When she wants me to be her teenage friend, I won't be able to cope. And when she needs a kindred spirit, someone to help her choose the right path in life, I won't be able to advise her. I'm afraid I won't be able to cope because I've never experienced it myself, never felt it, never received advice, help, never been warmed by a single kind word. I'm afraid of hearing words that might hurt more than they should, of seeing gestures that are more hostile than they actually were.

I'm afraid of all this, but only sometimes, at night, when I worry more than I probably should, I think too much longer than necessary. Only sometimes do these negative observations reach me, but behind them, there's immediately hope and solace that this won't be the case, that I'll never live to see such thorny moments. In a moment, a faint smile appears on my face, invisible in the darkness, yet glowing in my heart. After a moment, this night, which just moments before was dark, lonely, and evil, brightens and brings a dream that is just another, one of many, a prelude to the next day, when I will be with my daughter, I will see her smile or tears again, I will be an important person in her life again, and I will rejoice in it, as if I were constantly receiving a gift every day. Because it is a gift—a small, intangible one, perhaps not often appreciated, often unnoticed, but constantly received. The kind of gift that accumulates daily, over many years, like money in a piggy bank. The kind that is stored in my heart. It holds no fortune or savings, but it is indestructible, because no one will ever take these daily gifts from me, unlike money from a broken carbon dioxide bottle. Because it is very difficult to break a heart. My heart, though it sometimes fails, won't let go of these everyday gifts it's acquired, won't give them away for sale, won't throw them in the trash, won't forget them, but selfishly keeps them for itself.

That's why, morning, afternoon, evening, night, when I hear "Mom, Mom...", I'm there, or at least I try to be. And I fight not to disappoint her, not because I'd like to be appreciated someday, not because it's nice when someone still needs me, not because I generally enjoy helping others and enjoy being needed, but precisely to feel myself, to know that I'm alive, that this is why I'm here and want to be, that I want to learn and understand so much more by learning from her, who, after all, is learning from me.

I don't love you, I hate you, I don't even like you—I could say it many times, but you probably know it's quite the opposite. And if you don't realize it, I know it well. And all of the above, these words about how it's not like I'm shouting on the phone, but the opposite—I wanted to tell you earlier, many times, even more times than these words about hatred. And for so many years, I thought that because of all the daily blows you gave me to my heart, instead of gifts, I would never be able to extract anything from it, never love or forgive. But I understood this with my daughter. I regret it, I remember, but I haven't lost the love that, although deeply hidden, lingered and remained within me.

You see, I didn't manage to say all this to your face, or over the phone. I didn't have time. Do you think I'm telling you all this too late? That maybe life would have been different if earlier... I don't know... Now that you're listening from so far away, and I'm sure you are, I want to say that thanks to you, I've achieved what I have now, I have a daughter. And even though I'll be different from you, I'll act differently, I'm grateful in some way.

I have to go now; I'll probably drop by sometime to chat as... a daughter. Oh, and I forgot to add that I don't hate you, I even love you. What you see or hear doesn't fade; something remains in that piggy bank, irreplaceable.