Of organza flowers and life

A nondescript evening at home with the sound of tv in the background and the fan humming quietly away. Mum sat down at the kitchen table next to me, curious about the box that I had placed on the table. It was my "bridal box"; a clear, rectangular plastic box that contained scraps and materials that might come in handy for my bridal D.I.Y. projects, as well as some flora and beaded hairpins.

Giving her a bored look, I told her that I was trying to make something out of those strips of organza cloth which was the result of an abandoned D.I.Y. project almost 7 years ago. It was meant to be made into drawstring bags which never happened. One of the reasons why it never happened was because I was never any good at sewing.

Mum suggested that I tread the needle in-and-out and then scrunch it together. It came out looking ok but I started to improvise and improve. It got better with practice and soon started to look good. I was soon immersed in it, with the humming sound of the fan as my companion, while mum left me to go about her household chores.

It was a very enjoyable experience, learning to be comfortable with a needle and thread. Almost like a child learning to be just a little bit more independent.

When mum was done with her chores, she sat down next to me once again. Seeing the untidy and haphazard way I sewed and tied the thread, she taught me how to tie a secure knot at the end of it. It was rather easy but I just kept forgetting. Every time that happened, she would patiently take over and demonstrate to me once again. Warmth trickled down my whole being like melted honey, sweet, warm and filled with bliss.

At the same time, I felt a little chocked up. Suddenly, I could see the lines on my mother's face and the veins on the back of her weathered hands more clearly than ever. I realised that life has almost come a full circle. Tonight, at the kitchen table, it was not only about organza flowers. It was also about preparing to be a bride, and learning the ropes of a wife and a mother.

I know that my mum was not a born perfect mother but she learnt and she tried her best to be one. In a few years, I will be in her shoes. I know it is a little scary to think about it right now and it sounds like a humongous role but like my mum, I know that I will give it my best shot.

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Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them - a mother's approval, a father's nod - are all covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as skin sags and the heart weakens, that the children understand; their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of their lives.
- Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet In Heaven