Time-Distance

My name is Malik, and I don’t have a job. It’s not because I don’t want one, but because my mother once told me she didn’t need anything from me, except for one thing. If I ever smoked, she said, I’d no longer be her son.

I’m not someone important. In fact, I don’t even know what kind of person I’ll become, if I become anyone at all. Today, though, my urge to write is intense. When it hits, nothing else matters but satisfying myself, proving to myself that I can become someone brilliant and magnetic in no time at all.

Writing poetry brings short-lived satisfaction, but that feeling fades into awkwardness the next day.

Writing a novel might bring lasting fulfillment, but the question is, will I finish before my drive disappears?

As for writing music, I'm not ready for that.

It's easier to sing. Sing the songs that already exist, and listen over and over to the recordings I make, since I seem to be blind to the sound of my own voice.

While I’m caught up in singing, a woman I love crosses my mind.

Let me tell you my story, a story about distance and time.

I’ve always been a stubborn child, the second of four siblings. My father died before I was born, and my mother, a single parent, raised us all on her own. When I was in school, I didn’t have many friends, just one, Ihsan. He was rich, and every day he would eat most of the lunch my mother packed for me. I’d only get a small portion, and he’d devour the rest.

I began to suspect he was only my friend because of my mother’s cooking. After all, she had worked as a chef at a well-known restaurant in her youth, so her food was always mouthwatering, even from a distance.

That’s when I stopped trusting Ihsan, and soon after, I distanced myself from him.

Every evening at dinner, after coming home from school, I would talk about my problems at the dining table. My two younger siblings, Maya and Mikail, were always there. My older brother was away at boarding school. I’d share my friendship issues, but my mother never seemed to care. She’d just tell me to finish my food.

That’s when I stopped trusting anyone. Even my mother wouldn’t listen to me.

Once, my mother was called to school because I hadn’t been doing my homework. Afterward, she scolded me for hours in front of Maya and Mikail. Everything was fine until I tried to write something in front of her.

"I can’t concentrate when you’re watching me, Mom," I complained.

“I’m just making sure,” she said. “I’ve noticed your ‘u’ is starting to look like a ‘v.’”

I don’t know why, but whenever she watched me do something, I froze up. My mind went blank. It wasn’t like performing in front of the school on Teacher’s Day, when I sang and felt completely confident. This was different.

Mom once promised to show me a place where I’d finally understand why I became so nervous when she watched me. My curiosity burned inside me, maybe because I loved science. To me, understanding the hidden workings of the world was what made life worth living.

But every day, I asked, “When are you going to show me?” I was worried she was just saying it to calm me down, like a lie told to pacify a child.

Time passed, and I eventually finished school. I applied for jobs, mostly through social media ads, because my mother kept pushing me to find work. My older brother was already married, so it was up to me to take care of her now that she was getting older. Maya and Mikail were still in school, Mikail was only twelve, and Maya fourteen. Maya often entered school competitions, and my mother would beam with pride. I, on the other hand, felt like I was being ignored. Even though I had achieved a lot during school, not just in sports, my mother never celebrated me.

Almost every day, I thought about my future. I was exhausted from worrying about money. Sometimes, I’d spend my last dollar on my mother because she needed something, but all she ever saw were my mistakes. Whenever I was tired after work, she’d scold me about the state of my room or the kitchen. Her favorite children, Maya and Mikail, never got the same treatment.

Whenever we argued, I’d accuse her of favoring them. Her reply was always the same: "I love all of you equally. I’ve never treated any of you differently."

To me, that was just something mothers say to cover up their bias. I was tired of hearing it. I tried so many things to make her love me.

Then, one cold, empty day, it all came to a head. I was at work, finishing up an order, when my brother called. He told me that Mom had asked him to tell me to take her to the hospital. Even though he lived over 200 kilometers away, she had called him instead of me. I rushed home, thinking it was just a minor illness.

But when I got there, she was unconscious. I immediately called for an ambulance. In the ambulance, my phone kept ringing, it was probably my brother. But my mind wasn’t working properly. All I could think was that everything would be fine.

I kept reminding myself of the promise she had made me. People who make promises don’t break them, right? Then, I slapped myself on the forehead. I remembered that she had never really cared about me. Even when she was sick, she had called my brother for help, not me. What were the chances she’d actually keep her promise to me?

My thoughts were spinning out of control when I heard the paramedic’s voice cut through the fog: "She has no pulse."

They continued trying to resuscitate her, but I was in shock, unable to process anything.

When we arrived at the hospital, everything went dark. The doctor told me she was gone. I had never felt such pain. Losing my mother was nothing like losing my father, who had passed away when I was too young to remember. This loss was profound, irreplaceable.

People always say that when you lose someone, you remember the happy times, the vacations, the moments when your mother supported you, or how she was always there to listen. But for me, it was different.

I remembered her walking me to school, sitting with me at breakfast on my first day, and most importantly, I remembered the promise she had made, that one day, she would show me a place where I would finally understand everything.

Three years have passed, and I’m still at the same job, waiting for my resignation to be approved. I hate the place. Every day, I take the LRT to work, spending 40 minutes on the train, just like I always have. I don’t own a car.

Sometimes, my brother visits us, bringing a little spending money for me and my siblings. Occasionally, he tells us stories about our father , how he had been a researcher and even had his own writings, which I had never known about.

But then, one day, my brother brought up how much our mother had done for him during university.

"You were always her favorite," I muttered.

"Do you even appreciate what Mom did for us?" he snapped. "You still resent her, even though she’s gone?"

"You have no idea what my life was like, so don’t pretend you understand," I shot back.

"Mom called me when she was dying because she didn’t want to bother you. She knew you were busy with work."

I went silent. My brother stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind him. That was the moment my long-buried tears finally fell.

For the first time, I saw things from my mother’s perspective. I finally understood.

She had promised to show me a place, a place where I would understand why I was always so nervous when she watched me.

But she left before she could show me.

Now, I realize that the nervousness I felt wasn’t because of my mother’s judgment, but rather the selfdoubt I had carried with me since childhood. It took time to understand that all along, my mother had been looking at me with love , love I had always overlooked.

Time is the only thing that can reveal the sincerity of love.

And my mother was the easiest person I could have ever loved.