Panda's Eyes

Panda's Eyes

Sunlight shines through the window, and gently rests on the kitchen sink. The very spot where the sunlight is, it is the most memorable place in my heart. My mother stands by the sink daily, while I half serious wash the dishes. Much laughter and tears, many frowns and disagreements, our kitchen is like a love channel for private chat. As usual, I was half grievous washing dishes after dinner one night, a week from mother's day; my mother's soft footsteps had beckoned a heartfelt argument and ended with a sweet remembrance of the taste of pineapple.

May 10, 2006 was a night that I will not forget: My mother and I entered into a bona fide argument. Perhaps it was culture differences, or generation gap; whatever it was, we never came to the middle ground. I was standing beside the sink with my body leaning on one leg. My mind was wandering about the characters of TV shows we watched at dining table. I did not like the seemingly endless chore that I have to do each night after meal. Just as my hands were occupied with foams and greasy plates, my mother moved from her dining chair toward the sink where I was--my soul seemed to wander out of my body. She threw the toothpicks into a trash bin, and started to star-fix onto my eyes. As she started to speak, my mind began to flip back onto the dishwashing. All I wanted was to finish the housework and go to bed early. While I was half listening, I commenced to comment on my mother's accusations.

I helplessly defended my ground by saying that the Internet has been beneficial to my learning. My mother did not understand my needs to work on my computer and the Internet for eight hours straight everyday. I shared that I can listen to teleconference and internet conference, pod casting, and read e-news and e-newsletters. And can be usefully read to me by the computer with my reading software aids. Hence, I was trying to convey how important computer and the Internet are to me.

I can still vividly rehearse the situations in my head. My mother's voice was rising like a roaster at the dawn. She was trying to control her tone and her frustrations, and make a stand for her position, as she knew that there were two tenants sleeping downstairs. Her expression was like an angry Staffordshire bull terrier, with a cry of a kitten. Her fists were crunching on each other. Once in a while she would slap my arms with her reddish hand, which was made by the years she served in our family and with the increased emotions that was burning inside her. Her teeth were grinding like a chisel, as her nose was moving like someone was going to sneeze. Her eyes went so large and big, that it seemed as though they were going to fall out. Thus, my mother had captivated my attention then. Indeed, this is an argument that made a lasting impression in my heart.

Remorse sunk into my skull, as my mother left the kitchen. My mother was so angry that she threw her watch repetitively onto the sink. I felt as though she was striking across a negotiating table to make a point. My mother's concern was about the health of my sight, and my unwillingness to read the newspaper, and job classifieds, as opposed to being online the Internet or computer. She asked me to count the hours I was online doing something productive versus non-constructive behaviors. I then noticed I had missed a very important point: I failed to admit that my computer and the Internet have numerously times distracted me from starting, and completing my works. Each time as I recall the expression on my mother's face, I cannot help but discern guilty for my misbehaviors.

My disobedience must have stoned her heart. My mother was only addressing her love for me, yet I made her so frustrated that she turned her beautiful composure into one of the ugliest moment of her life. All the time, I was complaining that she did not understand me, but in fact it was me who did not listen carefully for her words. I did not care for her fragile body, whose hair once was thick now frail. I thought it was a long stand beside the kitchen sinks, yet my mother had done many more in days and nights. Her feet were sore and swollen with the afflicted allergies, yet she soundlessly worked against the clock. Her eyes were as dark as of a panda's own, yet she did not sleep until one or two in the morning. She did not slack when she was already exhausted from work in the day. She kept standing there at the kitchen even when she was sick. She was offering her love freely to us all, yet I reserved my extra time to my bed. As my mother left the kitchen disappointed, my heart sunk into tears.

The sweetness of the pineapple, has added to my appreciation for my mother. Each cube of pineapple was ever so delicately diced. They were placed in a bowl for me to taste when my stomach hungered for snacks. Every night my mother came into the kitchen at midnight to prepare my lunch and nibbles --she worried that I would be overweighed, so she monitored my meals with sophisticated calculations. As my teeth press against the juicy diced cube, my mind recalled thousands of conversations being passed between my mother and me. The atmosphere of our kitchen is indeed full of sweet and sour memories.

by Vivian So aka. Eliza Simmons
http://dreamcity.faithweb.com/
halkyon@hotmail.com