“How” I’m Not Sure, But That Woman Smells Like Home

Phoebe Strawberry
3 min readOct 20, 2023

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“It’s because I know so little of her that even if I do love her, I don’t know what makes me so.”

What is a Mother? And what is it that makes her so special?

I’ve seen many types of Mothers, and been taken under their wings for some time in my life — but still — I fail to understand what a Mother truly is. Because I have a very shallow understanding of that concept, I’ve remained blind and unable to see the bigger picture of it — I lack experience. It makes me wonder how others with the same fate as mine deal with this confusion.

A Mother can be a person who gave birth to you, or they can be a person who takes care of you; these are the two types of Mothers that I know. Their personalities differ and vary, but their characteristics will root down to those two. They branched out as; a mother that gives birth to you and then takes care of you, a mother that gives birth to you but doesn’t take care of you, or a mother that might not give birth to you but still takes care of you.

My biological Mother died of cancer when I was very young. I always shrugged it off ’cause it didn’t really impact me at that time. But as I grew older, the pot began to crack and what spilt was a sea of doubts, confusions, and questions. I remember her face, I remember her presence, but I am unable to recall what her voice sounded like and I barely know anything about her it made me think, ‘If I were to say I love her, does that make me a liar?’ It’s because I know so little of her that even if I do love her, I don’t know what makes me so.

Is it because she’s my Mother? Is it as simple as that?

My Mother wasn’t in the picture since my early days, and so, many filled in for her roles. My grandmothers are my Mother, my Aunts are my Mother, My stepmother is my Mother, and even my father, too. They nurtured me, took care of me, loved me. But then one day a question came to my mind, ‘If these many people can become a mother with just that, then how is it still special?’

The answer was partly given by a little voice that has been shouting within the nook of my soul. A voice shouting such miseries, depravities, scarcities. It shouted out the missing piece that the Mothers were unable to fill. My ear couldn’t catch the exact words, but indeed I could feel them. What in the world is missing? Love? Affection? Truth? Instinct? Deoxyribonucleic acid?

Here I conclude that: mother is a mystery, mother is an open book. Mother is an embodiment of paradox, a contradiction unparalleled to no end. Mother made me my favourite toast, Mother pinched my forearm when I acted up. Mother brushed my hair despite my body that had grown even taller than hers, mother also taught me how to play piano. She sang me lullabies and patted my thigh to sleep. Mother was my unbecoming, yet she was the light I saw at the end of the tunnel — unreachable, nurturing, deadly, lovely, a beautiful confusion; mother.

It may be as simple as that. Perhaps, it is what makes Mother special.

My heart clenches and unclenches, eyelids closing as it slightly twitches. Though I approve of my final defeat, the thought still lingers in my brain, my essence, and it travels along the near-empty space of a black hole–

–”How” I’m not sure, but that woman smells like home.

fin.

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Phoebe Strawberry
Phoebe Strawberry

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