Years after Bàba’s passing, Māmā would randomly declare that this was a sign that she would be widowed at such a young age with two children. Or that was a sign that she would be widowed at such a young age with two children. These arbitrary outbursts would arise completely unprovoked, as if she had Tourette.
Amid putting away the milk in the refrigerator, Māmā would suddenly say, “did I tell you that my wedding ring broke into 3-pieces within a month of our wedding? I should have known then that I would be a widow.” I stared at her blankly. The small kitchen was filled with this uncomfortableness and in desperation to fill the air with something, anything else, I asked, “did you ever get the ring fixed?” She shook her head ever so slightly. “Why not?” the words came out before I could stop myself. “I do not know,” she responded heartbroken.
***
For as long as I can remember, I have been the only person in Māmā’s life to remember her on birthdays and Mother’s Day. I would often skip eating lunch to save my lunch money or do extra chores to squirrel away more around those time of year.
When we lived off Kissena Blvd, I would pass by a candy shop, a King Kullen, and a Hallmark shop. The Hallmark shop window was large and full of pretty, shiny things that I couldn’t afford. Regardless, I would find myself going in almost every day, wandering about making a mental list of all the things I wanted, knowing that it was a list of fantasies. I would look at all the Precious Moment figurines, the Snoopy stationaries … the tri-fold kind that you can just write your missive and send without an additional envelope. ‘Fancy’ I thought to myself.
On a cubed glass shelf by the front window, I spotted a set of 3-cat figurines. It was a trio of flowing white fluffy fur carved in porcelain. The mother cat stood statuesque over the two kittens. Her wavy mane forever captured blowing in a delicate breeze, framed its face as if it was standing perpetually in front of a fan. Two sharp triangle ears peaked through the porcelain fur, a quasi-Maine Coon standing sentinel over her kittens.
It was almost $8.00 so I had to really plan & save if I were to have enough by Mother’s Day. I helped Pópo with her groceries, I vacuumed Dà yí’s house, and I skipped a bunch of lunches. By Mother’s Day I had enough to cover the cat trio to include taxes.
I gave Māmā the small plain white cardboard box slightly bulging from each figurine wrapped in tissue paper. When she finally unwrapped the last figure I exclaimed, “Happy Mother’s Day!” Māmā burst into tears in appreciation.
***
I was 9 when I gave Māmā those trio of kittens and she had proudly displayed them on her vanity for years. It was the second anniversary of Bàba’s death. Māmā, Gēge, and I were preparing to visit Bàba’s grave, and I went into Māmā’s room to grab a comb. She was sitting on the corner of her bed rummaging through her purse when she looked up at me as I walked past. “I should have known then that I would be a widow and left with raising two children when you bought me those cats,” Māmā said out of the blue. I grabbed the comb and turned around to leave as quickly as I could but wasn’t quick enough. “It was an omen that you bought those for me for Mother’s Day. It was a sign that I would be left to raise two children by myself.” I didn’t respond and simply walked out of Māmā’s room as quickly as I could. I grew accustomed to being the harbinger of Bàba’s death, leaving Māmā a widow, and Gēge and myself fatherless. It was probably then that I started to increasingly rely on facts and data because it was the only way to emotionally survive.
The Angry Typist 
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