There's a scene that comes to mind when I'm on the train.
It's a blurry haven of spring weather, and I'm walking down the cobbled pavement with wired earphones blasting my usual mix. Step by step, I'll move forward with my hands buried in the pocket of a beige trenchcoat. Scattered on the ground are fragile leaves, and I navigate the maze with high-heeled boots, the kind I always asked Mother for. I can't see myself, but I know my hair sways and bounces to the rhythm of vitality. I feel young and limitless again. I'm not supposed to know where I'm going, but I know I'm going somewhere. The scene always ends when I step onto concrete steps welcoming a black door. I think I've been here before.
When I open my eyes, the train has already arrived. People rush out impatiently, and amid the morning crowd I feel vulnerable and lonely. I keep myself as vigilant as a reasonable young lady can in a room full of strangers, neglecting to look at my phone, catching glances to no avail. Everybody avoids eye contact at this hour.
I find myself cozily surrounded by bodies, and I settle into the cadence of comfort. The train moves in its regular pulse, announcements blasting every few minutes, and I'm shuttled along the abysmal underground, having faith that it'll lead me somewhere.
I notice the woman in front of me donning a familiar white cap with the words "Faith, Hope, Love" embroidered onto the front. The colour is faded, and the letters at the end are no longer sewn on properly, as if the cap had gone through a rough patch and was in the process of healing. I know this because I have the same cap. And perhaps, because I, too, empathise with it.
The cap was a gift from Mother. She meant for it to be a surprise, but I ruined it myself by rummaging through her wardrobe. She hated when I did that. I knew because she'd frown and chase me out of the room, hands on her head, lips tutting to the tempo of her stamping feet. I prefer to think she was mesmerised by the mess I made, admittedly so. Later on when she cleaned up my mess, I shyly produced the cap I'd taken from the wardrobe. I think she intended for it to be a birthday gift, but I don't quite remember anymore. The words on it were cheesy, but they offered me forced happiness, so that on days I didn't own any "Faith, Hope, Love" I'd wear the cap as a reminder. It would bring me back to Mother more than anything else.
Anyways, little things irked her often.
There was another time she found me in the garden, lushly asleep and covered in dirt. She'd almost called the ambulance before she noticed my soft breaths. Everything's fine, I told her groggily, I'm better now. She didn't know what to say, only silently helping me up and dusting off the brazen bruises peppered with oozing red liquid. I forgot about the shovel I'd discarded on the side. She later joked that I was digging my own grave. I would add that I was burying my dreams while I was at it.
We didn't talk about the garden incident afterwards, but I know she suspected me of having dirtied her, or rather my, cap on purpose. I couldn't explain why after she'd put the dirt-filled cap to wash that a hint of red remained. She didn't say anything either, but bleach and baking soda did the trick.
The other episode she would rather not talk about. It happened a few days after the garden incident while she was in the kitchen. I found her crying, body crumpled onto the floor, hair burying her face with arms splayed onto the counter top. She was bleeding from her hands, and I noticed the knife carelessly dropped into the sink. As a daughter should, I attended to her, bringing out the first-aid box and gently applied pressure to the wound. She winced silently. Sometimes, temporary pain was necessary for lasting pleasure.
That was one of the last memories I had with Mother, before she left me. I can't say to where, or to who, but I understood that she left everything for me, except for the cap. I couldn't grasp its significance. Perhaps, she desired it as her lucky charm, to have "Faith, Hope, Love" with her always; or she wanted a reminder of me, wherever she went. In the weeks that passed, I searched for the cap more than I searched for Mother. If she were to leave me, I know she'd want me to have everything that was hers, for what is a daughter to a mother if not her entire world, her pearl, her girl?
I followed the lady donning the cap out of the cabin. I couldn't yet see her face, but the train had brought me somewhere, and I believe I'd come to my stop. She was quick on her feet, but I was more nimble than her frail habitus.
She turned to me.
"I'm better now, Mother," I looked at her earnestly, "I've been taking my medications, and they thought it was time to release me."
Apprehensive, careful, but daring, I pulled her into a hug. It had been a while since our last embrace. Gently, I took the cap from her only to meet the eyes of a stranger.
Once in a blue moon, I'll find myself back at the train station, waiting. I don't intend to travel anywhere apart from where my mind would take me, if only back to the familiar scene. It is a craving not yet satisfied; and the hunger thrills me to seek her again, if not to bid hello, then to cap the farewell I was never given. Until then, I'll keep on searching for the cobbled pavement every spring, walking in high heels with my wired earphones; and I'll keep boarding the next train, until I come to my destination.