To Mother
What is my top concern, the answer would differ from person to person. I concern myself in economic issues, in my own future development, in increasing natural disasters, and in the peace and glory of my country. However, I can’t be more sincere if I present my affection towards my mother as my top concern. My mother is the very important person, who endures from she gave birth to me, to the latest second. As time going on, I brew the affection, not only for she was the woman who created me, but also for she has been the parent who shapes me. As I am more and more independent, she seems dependent on me emotionally more than ever. Therefore I can’t escape the concern about her, because I am here, in the university, living my new life, and away from her.
When infancy, my mother fed me with her own spring of life. The naturally intimacy rooted both in the blood we shared and every moment we shared. She huged me, kissed me, and caressed me; I was the apple of her eye. I really cannot recall many details for I was so little, however, all the touch she gave me impressed me with confidence: I was, I am and I will always be her somebody. My mother was a perfect woman in the eyes of a little girl as I was. My mother is a pretty woman. It was she who enlightened me the sence of beauty. My mother is a kind-hearted woman. It was she who taught me to love. My mother is a considerate woman. It was she who built my self-esteem no matter how the condition was. I become who I am, thanks to my mother’s being.
I am not the little girl any longer. The baby girl who troubled her, who accompanied her, and who filled her life with odds and ends stayed in the old memories. Instead, the girl she treats as beloved daughter, is now like a migrant, who drops in on her when vacation and is away for the most of time. No matter how we bond to each other emotionally, the distace between us is hundreds and thousands meters, no longer the only wall between two bedrooms. The affection can’t fill the gap. After so many years being devoted, my mother burned her bloom of youth. The woman lost her rose-like tenderness, ground down her elegant sophistication, and tore down her cherishable patience. Whether the menopause or the my absence leads to her nasty temper, it tortures both her and me.
I have to admit, or even confess that often I cannot pay back equal patience to my mother as she used to give me. Every time it occurs to me, I feel frustrated. And the sense of guilt inceases when it comes to my not being by her side. I do care her. Her health worries me. A woman at her age needs more attendance when I don’t know her life as a single. Her loneliness worries me. A mother comes home finding rooms empty, without her half-life gravity, me. Her worries worries me. A parent can’t help boiling her heart with all kinds of anxiety. I don’t want to imagine how all these above exhaust her, because the image itself will be definitely beyond me.
It will sound more dignified if I announce my top concern is the environmental or national affairs. However, I cannot persuade myself from expressing the overwhelming feelings towards the woman I call her my mother. Every slice of her love contributes to my concern in turn. Therefore, I cannot think of any other than my mother as my top concern. And the affection itself has melt into every single drop of my blood. As Wordsworth wrote, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in flower; we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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