By Ratatouille (Majangkim Office)
KOTA KINABALU: For Mum, with the same melody I carry in my chest.
I remember my mum. She woke us up for school — and she is still doing it with her grandchild now, after a full day on the farm.
Our lazy eyes were awoken by the clattering of her pots in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, as we showered with cold morning water.
That sound — pots clanging before sunrise — that was her first song to us.
She changed the course of our lives — not with speeches, not with force. Just nurturing. Day after day.
Quietly. Our rebellious nature didn’t understand it and wanted to say no, no and cry!
But she never stopped. Even when we shouted. Even when we ran away.
She stayed. Like a note that repeats until you finally hear it.
She makes the best ayam kicap after school – or just egg with rice. I don’t care. She would ask, “How was your day in school?”
Her grandchildren sometimes had KFC fried chicken. And she watches them eat – the same way she watched us – with eyes that say, ‘Eat more. You are too thin.”
That is her love: served hot, with no recipe but her heart.
You grow. It’s time to go to university. You leave the house for the first time.
You can see her eyes are watery — for letting her son go into the wild called life.
She does not cry loud. She turns away. She wipes quickly. Then she says, “Bagus bagus ko disana.”
Be good there. Take care. Don’t forget who you are.
Those silent tears – and those four words – that was the whole song in one note.
The bond between Mum and her children never severs. She is part of you, and you are part of hers.
A lioness who protects her cubs with her life.
You miss your mum. You remember her advice. It comes back to you in the quiet hours – when you are lost, when you are tired, when you are becoming a parent yourself.
Her voice is the melody that never leaves your head.
You are who you are because of the mother that delivered you unto this earth. You are always her son and daughter.
Not because she was perfect. Because she stayed.
The brutal life lesson is that you lose everything. The wake-up call is remembering your mother’s love and knowing your purpose in life.
To all the mothers in Sabah — the ones still with us and the ones we miss: you raised us, you carried us for nine months, and you made us who we are. Thank you for your sacrifices.
That is our love letter to you. No orchestra. Just us.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mum. The song in my heart is yours.
