An ode to my Mum

Suppose a smell has the fascinating ability to re-evoke moments or events from the past; in this case, I agree with Marcel Proust’s famous madeleine, the vanilla cake in which the fragrant scent brought him back to his childhood. Not too long has passed since I felt that ‘madeleine effect’; it is still around me, and each time I smell a piece of clothing, whether mine or my daughter’s, I feel like I am whisked into a cottony delicate ripple. I could name it ‘The Scent of a Mother’s Love’. That scent is the laundry liquid my mum uses.

That scent was, mainly, the inspirational/sensory component that gave rise to this memoir; it is also, in present times, the invisible bridge that makes the geographical distance between me and my family, not as vast. It helps to fill that void, even if sometimes wrapped up in my routine, I may not realise is there.

April last year is the narrative starting point – on the 17th, to be exact; I was expecting my first child, and when a baby is about to be born, a mum is about to be, too.

At that same time, I was waiting for another extraordinary person to arrive — my Mum. She was coming down to Melbourne from Italy to be by my side during the last stage of the pregnancy.

The way she managed to get through the trip, all by herself, warmed my heart, even more so, considering that she doesn’t speak any English, and has never travelled overseas before. It was remarkable to witness the way my mum gave shape to a simple trip, turning it into a precious and valuable life experience. She was arriving with more than just luggage and a backpack on her shoulders.

The day finally rolled in! Everyone was bursting with joy and trepidation, feeling relieved by the fact that my mum had landed Down Under safe and sound, except for a drawback that happened at the Airport, in which she was held up at customs for an incomplete Income Travellers Card – the officers at the customs didn’t let her speak either with me or my husband on the phone for any help.

I clearly remember the frustration and irritation stirring through my body, especially after having helped her lay down all sorts of necessary documents in meticulous detail six months before the trip.

It felt quite disheartening, but when I saw my mum’s little figure appearing through the chunky, white, sliding doors at the international arrivals, a sigh of relief pervaded me and my husband.

That day at the airport, I hugged a Mum, her soul and her individuality: a sacred moment, almost unbelievable.

Her name is Anna – that’s her real name – and in this specific moment of my life, for the first time, I saw her as a strong, courageous and intrepid woman, not just a mother. She quite often stated that there will always be a chance for her to find a tiny, humble place in this world, wherever she may go.

As the first weeks unfolded, after the initial welcoming rituals and rearranging our emotional state, we all settled into our routine deeply joyful to get together again.

Throughout her stay, I observed her differently by dropping the mere daughter’s lens and embracing her as a person with her own story and insecurities. At some stages, I recall going through a sort of translation from myself towards the outside, contemplating how profoundly she was moving and existing in Melbourne, that I almost forgot I was pregnant. I could see myself as if I had been split in two. It all felt revealing and almost mystical.

It was a journey of pure Love and Acceptance that my mum had chosen to undertake, being aware that she was getting to meet my new life facing the fluctuating emotions she had been carrying inside since I moved to Australia. “You couldn’t have chosen a country farther away than this!” she sometimes grumbles when the nostalgia takes place.

Not long after my Mum’s arrival, I noticed that she was becoming more confident each day in commuting on her own, taking trams, getting groceries, and walking around the city for a little wander around. All this appeared to be of an immense grace and tenderness. I was amazed when, one morning, she showed up at the door with some fresh food from a local store using a courageous Survival Language vocabulary she managed to build to communicate when she was by herself.

On more than one occasion, she confessed to me she was pleased by the sense of freedom of doing things that made her happy in a city that for her, was like a second home; she experienced a gentle sense of belonging. There were days in which my mum carved fragments of time to savour a warm cup of coffee, or her favourite readings while sitting on the front porch of her apartment; those introspective moments gave her the chance to blend with her inner woman side.

It was the morning of July 12, 2022, when my mum left Melbourne, and her 2-month-old granddaughter — Kaya; although the following weeks were dribbling in a sort of emotional emptiness mixed with discomfort, as the time slowly went by, I could feel all the strength, resilience and confidence she had left to me.

There hasn’t been a day since then that I don’t think about her every time I pass by the apartment where she was staying, along with the heartfelt moments we cherished together; sometimes it feels like she is still here. In the meantime, I count down the days until I can hug her again.