My father died of a deadly fever. In a matter of seconds, my mother and I were left with not a penny to our names. Though my father came from a wealthy family, it soon became clear that they wanted nothing to do with the lowly washerwoman and her small child.
"I wish he had never married below his class," they grumbled, as they shooed us out the door, after the funeral.
Even through this, my mother, the very embodiment of a strong, proud woman, never showed any moment of despair as response to this hash rejection and death sentence of sorts. Without my father's inheritance and left with her meager earnings as a washerwoman, any other woman in her shoes would have blamed God. But, to her, life went on as it had before. She continued to rigorously scrub, rinse and dry every piece of laundry till they sparkled like a thousand shining stars.
During that time, I myself adored my mother. Sure, we weren't the best of friends but I saw her as a saint, with whom I could find no fault.
My view of her soon changed as not too long after turning fifteen, I became deeply ashamed of my mother's lowly occupation. "What will my friends think?" was my constant retort when she offered to send me to grammar school during any particularly bad snowstorm. At the time, if given the choice, I would have chosen to disappear forever into the treacherous over taking the risk of letting my mother be seen by my "judgmental" friends.
Once she earned enough money to send me on to higher education, I immediately chose to leave our obscure and cramped sixth floor apartment for greener pastures. Without a second glance at the mother who had raised me through her sweat and blood, I promised to never look back.
With a stroke of luck, I became the protégé of a businessman after a chance encounter. As expected, I first started off as a cashier at his grocery store, and then quickly moved up the ranks, becoming the second in command of the business. As a successful businessman, I started to look down upon my mother with more distaste than ever. Once again, as I did during my school days, I went to great lengths to keep her mere existence a secret from all who knew me, from my business partners to my blushing bride
The years passed as they do when no one is keeping track, without a visit home. At last, I received a message anticipated for years. My mother's body had finally begun to fail her; her landlord now told me of my mother's sickness. Discreetly, I arranged to send money for her funeral and casket, which I was sure she couldn't afford. She was already dead to me, so, really, what was the use in seeing her at her deathbed?
Days turned into weeks until the letter declaring her death arrived. At first, all those years of alienation, indeed, truly made me immune to the old and wrinkled washerwoman's death. Grief and regret were but a rusty untouched cobweb at the back of my intentionally distracted mind.
These emotions remained hidden away even until the workday ended. As I did the days previous, about noon, I begun the short walk to Jack's, a popular location across the street for respectable businessman to drink their sorrows away. Upon arriving, I waved to the owner in familiar greeting "Eh Jack, how's business today?"
"Havent hadta kick anybody out yet", Jack scoffed, counting the dollar bills received from an impatient but intoxicated customer.
"Huh."
"So, ya want ya usual?" the owner questioned while grabbing the keys of yet another graceful drunken acrobat.
A resounding "Yes" was all I could muster back before I downed my weight in alcohol and subsequently blacked out with my head slumped on the counter.
After what seemed like a few fleeting minutes, I awakened to a pounding headache and a darkened sky. Foolishly but drunkenly, I tried to sneak out of the establishment, with surprising success. The road in front of the bar led to a row of tall apartments, which looked suspiciously like the hell of my past. At least, my drunken mind seemed to think that was the case.
As I stumbled on towards home, a small figure caught my eye: a washerwoman who looked past seventy. From what I can recall, she carried a pack of laundry on her back, which was threatening to engulf her. Not to mention, her shaky knees and contorted body seemed to burden and resign her to taking small shuffle steps in hopes of crossing the abandoned street.
The very image of this washerwoman suddenly brought back memories, ones of my mother and our relationship, before I turned away from her. So, for the very first time in my life, in that very moment, I started to sob tears of regret for the loss of my mother. But no, I did not weep for her recent death. I had already lost her a long time ago, the same way she had lost me.