my eyes watered up like i was swimming in the ocean of the onions and i remember so vividly how it felt to have my first broken heart, my first lost love. what's one to do in this scenario? i had no past experience, and even if i did, nothing can make one's heart callous, humanity's weird like that. i cried. i cried, i cried alone and finally in union square i picked up my phone and call my mother.
why? because i went back to my instincts, wanting to curl up in the fetal position and forget all about him, the one who did this to me. but i can't. i'm too old. her voice comforted me and i cried on the phone like an infant. the tears were not able to hold themselves back, the gunshot fired in the air and zoooooom, they're off... rolling down in my face, running with no grief and no regret at their freedom.
mom told me, get on bart and come home. i did and i'll never forget this moment as long as i live, even when i'm 92. it was late and bart was going to stop running soon, i caught one of the final trains to the east bay. i went home, she left the porch light on... all cliche, all beautiful. i opened the door, mom's sleeping, the house is dreaming. it felt like pain hasn't ever entered this place, though i know it has.
i turned on the television, i relaxed on the sofa and then i heared her wake up. she came near me and she hugged me like never before, one of those "i love you, i love you, you're so loved" sorta hugs. and we talked. we talked and chattered like old women playing bridge and she comforted me with words, only words that no one person in a world of over six billion could come even half a centimeter close to. i went to my old room and slept and she was there in the morning. later that day, she took me to the bart station and she let me know, again, how loved i am. i got on the train and floated back into the city.
she was there for me like i knew she would be.