2024

“Happy birthday toooo yooou,” sang my mom, fabulously off-key. She held open a plastic clamshell cradling a single chocolate cupcake, frosted with cerulean buttercream and garnished with red and white sprinkles, topped with three skinny candles that each danced with flickering flame.

“Make a wish, baby,” she encouraged.

I closed my eyes and blew.

The Charles River was a shimmering sorbet of orange and pink, reflecting the sky's sleepy pastel glow. Tall grasses lining the water’s edge swayed in the breeze, waving at the silhouettes of blocky buildings in the far distance. We sat in our royal-blue lawn chairs, food truck hot dogs in hand, waiting for the curtain of night to fall upon this glorious stage. It was the best twelfth

birthday I could ask for: just me and Mommy, watching the fireworks together. Our annual tradition. I didn’t know this would be the final time.

I pressed my cheek against her shoulder, heart fluttering with love. My brilliant, tenacious, powerful Mommy. My Mommy who fought for us, who pushed us toward greatness, who loved us so fiercely. My Mommy who gave us haircuts, who bought us flaky egg custards from Chinatown, who taught us to suck the fatty marrow from pork bones and chew off their cartilage caps, who showed us the best grain-to-water ratio for cooking the fluffiest white rice.

Yes, she forced us to play instruments and sports that we despised; she made us do math problems on plane flights to Disneyland and in the middle of the woods on camping trips; she imposed hours of dishwashing and rope jumping as punishment for our transgressions. But that’s because she cared so much. She knew what was best, and she wanted nothing less than the best for us. She would not be like her own mother, distant and neglectful and cold as polished stone. No – she would shower her children with hugs and kisses, would make sure they knew they were loved.

When I was a toddler, she noticed brown flecks dotting the whites of my eyes. Normal pigmentation, said the pediatrician, just like freckles. But if you’re really concerned, you can take her to see an eye doctor, if it’ll make you feel better. Ever-vigilant, ever-persistent, ever-concerned, my Mommy decided to do just that. By sheer coincidence, the exam revealed a retinal leak in my right eye. Coats disease: an ocular disorder involving abnormal blood vessel development in the retina, typically resulting in partial or full blindness, or even removal of the affected eye. This thing often wasn’t detected until later in life, when it was already too late. But luckily, I was young. Two laser surgeries later, I was fixed. Thanks to my Mommy, I could see the world in all its scintillating color. Thanks to my Mommy, I might one day be a visual artist.

​

My Mommy was everything. I idolized her, erected a pedestal reaching high into the heavens and placed her atop it. A fall from such a grand height would surely hurt.