Letter to Daughter XIV

Beloved C,

There is a reason I document these overwhelmingly motherly moments. There is a reason you are, in spite of people's speculation that I keep you hidden somewhere (how funny, are you a magic lamp, or a genie bottle that I would?), open in the safest place. Here. In concrete clouds of irresistible illusion. So many complain about me not bringing you out of a white page. Well, C, how could I possibly explain to them that the white space is enough for us to make it our own, with whichever colour we choose, whenever? That we do put paint on zebras, tie clips on Tucks, go for picnics on flying carpets and take punishments with a dash of lime? 

Why would I bring you to this miserable, miserable world of ours? It would be terribly, terribly unfair of me and unjust on you, to give you a smokey world with smokier people, where air no longer smells of first rains and wet soil. I will only be giving you a similar looking stainless steel life, of insurances that cover no nature's might and art which is no longer passionately true enough to be art. I rather have you gleefully spell wrong (no, that I wouldn't mind you to work on), spill milk powder, cuddle into me on wintry nights and splash your powdered limbs on me during summer naps. I rather have you popping me a chit or two, once in while, some with considerably good content, and others with atrocious demands, which I faithfully do not have to comply. 

Am I escaping in the veil of keeping you safe? If yes, then alrighty, I mighty well am. For I do not wish for you to be growing in this notorious world where words like rape and trauma are disastrous to dreaming. Where fear treads in the name of fate. Where love comes with conditions, like those attractive deals underneath which, a tiny asterisk would slyly say, 'conditions apply'. Yes, living in this nasty world, I cannot promise you utopia. I could possibly promise you courage, but you see C, I am blessed with common sense and practicality, which forewarns me that single-handed courage will soon perish under the umbrella of corruption. Forget family, I cannot even promise you friends. 

What I can do instead, is give you this playground, for us to play, for us to jump and fall and get up. And you can give me a playlist back. Why, you thought only mothers had the right and liability to give? Mothers love receiving too. I would love a shepherd's pie baked by you, and a glass of whiskey on the rocks served by you. I would love to see you inheriting the skill of sous-cheffing, and surpassing that to become a masterchef. I would die to see you become a renowned cover-designer, but then, who reads books anyway?

I would, oh I would, if I only could. But I can't. My hands are tied to this keyboard. Thankfully, it gives us liberty to live. Just the way we want. And so we live, here. With each other, safe and cosy. 

I am, because you are. I am selfish and I am angry with this world of ours. I love you too much to lose you. Even if that means not giving you a life to live. I rather die, and carry you along. To animated clouds that would carpet our lives.

I love you,

Momie.