This is the second scheduled post. If it works according to the plan, it will be posted on Mar. 2, 2017. My mom passed away on Mar. 2, 2001.
No matter what I do to move on from this pain, deep down inside I will always know that I’ll never get to hug my mom again.
I grew up in a no-hug family. In fact, I don’t remember seeing anyone hug someone before coming to U.S.. I guess it was our culture back then.
When I was in high school, one day my mom took me to see a movie. While waiting for the movie to start, she suddenly hugged me. It was an awkward hug, coming with a force that almost could be qualified as an attack. It was clear that she had no idea how and it was also clear that deep down she wanted to hug her kid badly. I was in shock. Before knowing what was going on, I pushed her away. And I’ve regretted ever since.
Mom never tried hugging me after that. It was after I was 40, living in America for almost twenty years that I started hugging my parents when I visited them in Maryland. For dad, hugging was quick and short. If I hugged him a little longer, Dad would gently push me away, saying, “That’s enough.” I had a feeling that he didn’t want me getting emotional.
Mom giggled when I hugged her. She was the one who didn’t let go. She hugged with a noticeable strength. Sometime, I felt as if she wanted me back into her womb.
After Mom passed away, once in a while, I would extend my arms upward to the sky, eyes closing, reliving the hugging moments we had had… that’s the only thing I could do now.
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