I remember my Grade 2 class in primary when our monitress (a female student who helps keep the order or assists a teacher in school) allowed me to borrow a watercolour set from school after our practical art lesson. It was pricey back then, so most pupils could not afford one, though our school had a few sets.

I was also a transferee from another public school and it was only my 2nd day; our house was just five blocks away, so I walked from school to get back home. Arriving at the door, my mother greeted me.

As part of her usual tenor, she looked inside my bag to check if I had finished my baon; it was often Marie biscuits plus Royal True Orange inside a covered Tupperware glass box (believe me, that was already a classy snack during my school days).

She saw the watercolour set and held it up, “Kanino ito Roni?” she asked. “Hiniram ko sa eskwelahan Ma. Isosoli ko din bukas,” I replied.

The next day at school, I was summoned to the principal’s office for admonition and disciplinary action. I was accused of taking home a watercolour set without permission. My class teacher was there, as was the monitress; she seemed so nervous.

Perhaps pupils were not allowed to take home school property, that’s why she was anxious, or maybe she was confused and got scared when she was asked why something was missing. Either way, she denied that I had asked for consent to bring it home; she just let my teacher and the principal believe I took it without her knowledge.

I tried to argue my case, but I was told if I continued to refute it, I would be declined the formal approval of a transferee. But if I admitted the ‘crime’ (I’m short of what other words to call it), I would be punished by staying behind after school for a month, tasked with cleaning the classroom, sweeping and waxing the floor, erasing blackboards, and doing whatever else the teacher or the principal might ask me to do. In short, I would be their willing servant for 26 school days.

As I sat on a chair and was being questioned by three big women, the flickering lamp atop my head was moving like a pendulum – I swear, it was probably where many TV series got their ideas for an interrogation scene. As a 7-year-old boy, I was so helpless; I was on the verge of crying.

Threatened with being ostracised by my classmates if I conceded to the accusation (imagine how they would treat a classmate who received punishment after every school day!) and alarmed of being removed from school if I insisted I had done nothing wrong, I asked if I could call my mother.

The school janitor arranged to fetch her; she arrived half an hour later. Which story would she believe?

I guessed my mother had already been told what had happened because she looked very angry, even furious. I was ready to get it. I could see she was mad to the utmost degree — but not at me.

She turned to my class teacher and the principal and said she knew her son well and understood the whole story. She added that she had brought me up knowing Good Manners and Right Conduct (GMRC). She also knew that the monitress was not telling the truth, she said. Then, she turned and glanced at me with a motherly assurance; I swear that she also winked.

Turning to the principal and my teacher again, she looked them straight in the eyes and said, “You will not punish my son for something he did not do… or you’ll get it from me. I will take this to the Barrio Captain if I have to.” (In those days, a Barrio Captain still played a significant role).

Remembering my mother’s beautiful but senescent face, shaped by years of caring for her children, I can still picture and recall that glance of reassurance and care for her son – a mother’s glance. A glance that made me feel safe and protected. A glance that articulated, “I got this, son. I believe you, so just sit there and leave this to me. Just relax.” Although at that juncture, I remember what my mind was saying: “Ma, paano ako mag rerelax, kanina pa ako dito, naiihi na ako.” 

I guess that’s what all mothers do (aside from checking school bags). They are all capable of giving us ‘the glance’.

As children, whenever we were faced with seemingly mountainous challenges or had doubts about the rightness of what we were doing, we craved the mother’s glance. Instinctively, we would know if it meant ‘a nod of approval’, ‘a head shake of disfavour,’ ‘a hug of care’, or ‘an embracing shield’.

And sometimes, the glance could even be a forewarning of an impending disaster. A mother’s glance is so powerful that I had always imagined it could destroy the Senate and the Lower House of Congress.

My mother left us seven years ago. She passed away. The very day I learned that she was gone is still vivid in my memory today. I was not by her side when it happened. I was thousands of miles away from her when she breathed her last. 

My cellphone rang and on the other line were my sisters (GingGing and Pangga) and my brother (Ogart) in a hospital in CA, “Kuya, wala na si Mama, iniwan na tayo.” I cried then, and I cried again, then I cried some more for a long time. 

I didn’t care that I was with my colleagues and was in the middle of a work meeting; my nose was watery, and my eyes were pouring tears like the Pagsanjan Falls. It was the saddest moment of my adult life.

My Mama lost her battle against an illness that came to her just a few months before. She was gone. But I knew then that my memories of her will always remain in the compartment of all my senses. She will always be in my heart. The next day, I flew out of HK to join my siblings in the US; we mourned together and celebrated our mother’s amazing life. 

My mother had a good sense of humour, although she didn’t realise it. In one of my phone conversations with her, I heard her soft and old voice, and I thanked her for everything she had done for my siblings and me. I needed to speak a little louder as she was already hard of hearing; she would not hear me well if I didn’t make my words clear.

One time I asked her, “Ma, nanunood ka ba ng American IDOL?” She replied and said, “Anong gagawin ko sa MIDOL? Eh matagal na akong menopause.” Ngek! 

(Note: Midol is a medicine that treats the symptoms of premenstrual syndrome (PMS)).

When she was still with us, whenever there was a chance, I would thank her by creating an environment where we could laugh at each other: at my blunders and mistakes (I had many) as a freedom-seeking juvenile in the past, and at her own naturally developed peculiar talents as a senior-citizen-over-the-hill funny lady. And as always, she would make a mother’s glance when an opportunity would strike. 

A mother’s glance is an extension of the glinting rays from the sky; it gives us light in the dark. A mother’s glance is her heart and soul, softened by her innate love for us, and toughened by the spine of pains in trying to forget our wrongs, and only remembering our delightful qualities. Mothers are here to stay. They are here to prepare us for a better life. They deserve to be loved because they first loved us.

So while our mothers can still see a morning sun so bright and beaming on the shades of their hair and the palm of their hands; while they can still feel how a late afternoon setting sun could turn a place golden; while they can still remember the colour of our eyes and the sound of our voices; and while they are still able to discern and perceive our smiles, let us continuously proclaim our love and care for them in whatever ways we can.

Let’s show them how thankful and gleeful we are that they are our mothers. They deserve to be beheld with respect and admiration, because when their hands first held us while our eyes were still unopened, they had already bestowed upon us the most ardent and loving glance – a mother’s glance.

I still miss my Mama. I miss her a lot. And I’m certain that my siblings do too.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers.