10/05/2026
LITERARY | It’s only eight letters, It shouldn’t be too hard to say
“Mama, I love you,” was what I thought I said.
It’s another sultry summer; the days have become fickle passersby, and I’m getting older. I’m starting to see the world around me in a different light.
A few years back, what used to be in my hands were toys painted in a multitude of colors. What used to surround me were downtrodden Crayola markers—specifically a blue one, rough at the edges, yet it undeniably drew my childhood a little brighter. And through it all, my mom held the orange one—my complement. Yes, that’s who my mom is.
A little shabby at first, but I still vividly remember the thrill of drawing her and me. Because from the very start, it had always been the two of us holding crayons. Her calloused hands held mine in every way that was gentle and caring, while my feeble fingers held hers just as dearly.
There was a time when she was far away—across borders and across seas. My memories of her used to come from the Polaroids from 2009 that she tucked neatly into her albums. I loved the way she kept memories close to her, the way she tidied her clothes, even the way she slept on her side. I love my mom. I really do.
And I’d do anything for her, as she has always done everything for me. Yet despite it all, I find it hard to show affection—to say those eight-letter words. Perhaps it’s because my hands no longer hold the blue crayon, and hers no longer hold the orange.
Now, I’m preparing to step out—to go to a university far, far away from home. No longer do toys glitter in a multitude of colors before me; instead, there are preparations for the future I want to embrace. And sometimes, in the picture I’ve painted in my head, I forgot about her.
My mom is still the first person I smile to in the morning, but I find it harder to revolve my life around her anymore. It feels like a gradual slipping of my fingers that once held tightly onto hers.
As the days continue to pass, not only am I getting older—she is too. Her smile has grown soft at the edges, and her touch has become delicate. Once, I asked her to read something because I couldn’t understand a certain passage. Now, there had been instances where she asks me to read a book to her, not because she doesn’t understand, but because her vision that once saw everything clearly has grown a little rusty at the edges.
I used to think I was the only one getting older—the one always looking forward, the one eager to pack my things. Yet the moment I looked behind me, I realized I was getting farther away. Farther from her grasp. A distance I forced upon the both of us.
Before I knew it, everything came rushing back. To the woman who held me, and to the woman who still cradles me, I ran toward her. And amidst those crossroads, I grasped her hands and took steps toward the future I envision.
“Mama, thank you.” was what I meant to say.
🖋️: Pauleen Gail Dormentes
🎨: Chelzia Capito
