Monuments in the Sand...

By princes shall outlive my powerful rhyme.
The monument I build, to men endeared,
Not biting rain, nor raging wind, nor time,
Endlessly flowing through the countless years,
Shall e'er destroy. I shall not wholly die;
The grave shall have of me but what appears;
For me fresh praise shall ever multiply. -Horace

Today, 3.24.07 is the 26th death anniversary of my mother, Niceflora Ortilla Paulin. I was nine when she passed, and my brothers six and four. She didn't leave monuments that would make people remember her long after she is gone.

Mama Flora. She made the best squash leche flan in the world. She would spend a whole Saturday morning cleaning the house so we could go to the beach in the afternoon. She had an amazing flower garden and planted cantaloupe and eggplant in the backyard. She played a mean volleyball and ruled in scrabble. She was as smart as she was beautiful, stunningly beautiful. She was called Gloria Diaz by many. I remember holding on to her tightly because men were whistling at her as we walked by on our way to school.

Mrs. Paulin. She was a teacher. An English teacher who bought me books instead of toys. She was one of the best I was told. The best students almost always came from her class. The school sent her to Diliman to get her Masters Degree. That was where she spent most of her last couple of years. She came home after completing the program to celebrate her 34th birthday only to die a few weeks later. It was also graduation week. At the ceremony, a few her students fainted and it was said that they saw visions of my mother who was honored that day.

Being a parent now, I cannot fathom how I made it without her all these time. I remember going to PTA meetings for my brothers when I was in fourth grade while I attended my own meetings. Other parents felt so sorry for me. But I remember at that time it only felt appropriate. I missed her during those times. I missed her at my graduations, my teenage and college years. I missed her more at my wedding, my pregnancy and my son's birth.

Today I miss her the most. During the mass this evening, I felt a familiar wave of tingly feeling that somehow, she never left. Outside the church, I saw the first daffodils of spring and the first butterflies, her symbol and favorite creatures. At times, I still find myself talking to her, whispering my doubts and troubles like she can help me out of them. In a way, she does. My life's decisions have mostly been based on considering things that would make her proud of me.

I was at a party a few months ago when I met a woman who told me I reminded her of someone the way I looked when I spoke to my son about giving me his best behavior. When she found out my maiden name, tears filled her eyes. She told me she used to be my mother's student. She went on to tell me memories she had of her favorite teacher, her strength, beauty and wisdom. She also told me that she tries to emulate my mother in her life. This blew me away.

I guess I am wrong. My mother built monuments after all among the hundreds of students that she taught in her young life. She built three with me and my brothers. The kind of monument I hope I can one day pass on to my son. I hope I make her proud. Niceflora. Nice Flower.