My mother is like a warrior. Tough. She was always there for me; I can’t remember

once when she hasn’t been by my side. My mother always had this persona about happiness, being in the moment, and having fun. A goofball she is, my mother turned into a mother people fantasized about. No matter what, I had her support.

Internally, I didn’t know anything about her. I just saw her as my mother, someone who was perfect. As she balanced her mother persona and her internal struggles, it was ever so slightly noticeable. Her brother died. My Uncle Joey died.

Growing up, she always talked high about all her siblings, except Joey. With working parents, there was no really concrete “structure”. Everything she had to do, she learned from her older sister, or friends, or adults throughout her childhood. Everyone got the memo, except Joey. Joey was a typical person who “grew up on the streets”, even though they lived in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Acting tough, my mother said he soon found himself in some dangerous situations. Although not in a gang, he certainly acted like one. Influenced by his peers, he soon took part. One of her earliest memories is having to move houses because Joey lit a match, which led to the house erupting into flames.

Soon, fire was not enough. He moved towards more rewarding, yet more dangerous things. Stealing. Taking many things from others, he became the supplier around the block. Traded for money, he made a booming business. That was, until he found himself going in and out of jail. Bow. Before you knew it, he found himself in the middle of a gang war. 

Before my mother could comprehend, she found refuge in talking with her siblings. The death of her brother hit her like a rock, smothering pain onto her. Yet, she still stayed the same. Tough. Kind. A perfect mother in my eyes. One who I know is real.

Closer Than Words

Young love.The way she looked at me. The way she talked to me. The way we communicated. The way she introduced me to her mother. The way we just called, and how everything just floated away when she was there. 

My eighth grade year was different. Very different. At the start, I embodied a new idea of myself, going from short, almost a buzzcut, to my hair growing out to be a wolf cut. This took time though, as everything does. By the time of late December, early January, my hair was where it was. At this time, I thought it was the best I’ve ever had. Different. New. Long. 

During this time frame,Olivia  looked different from others. Pretty. Beautiful. Indescribable. I met her playing volleyball. I didn’t really know her, she was a year younger, but that didn’t stop anything. Somehow, we became friends. Friends that called. Friends that spent countless hours talking to each other. Friends that spent countless nights together. Friends that tried doing as much as they can together. Friends that didn’t know boundaries. Yet, these friends didn’t interact at school. 

Attraction was different to me. I never felt attracted to anyone. Not even her friend,  Ava, who liked me. Ava got mad towards Olivia because I was close to her.. Because I called her. Because Olivia  was “stealing” her man. All this fed up crap. Intertwined with a battle which seems like I would never win. I would never have both become happy. But I didn’t care for both the same. My girl was just better. Not toxic. Smart. Confident. Her laugh. Someone I could introduce to my parents with confidence. She stood out, unlike her friend who blended into a big asian group.

It was a time of hardship, a time of fear. I “took” my friends’  “girl”. I kept telling my friend that I was lost. That I didn’t know what to do. That I had to back off. For everyone’s sake, I stopped talking to her. I let my friends go after their dreams, becoming a wingman for my friends, yet nothing worked. Our spark. Our spark was still there.

We broke no contact. It wasn’t good, but it healed us. Discreetly, we became closer and closer. Closer than ever. Every passing moment, we were texting each other. Calling each other. Spending quality time, even if that meant over the phone. Her voice soothed every problem, letting all the thoughts just flow out. Her presence lifted the burdons I had over my shoulders. Spending countless times just sending paragraphs about how much we appreciated each other. Some might call it the start to lovebombing, but I called it perfect. 

There is no such thing as perfect in this world. Everything can seem perfect, yet everything can come crumbling down within seconds. You can only strive for perfection, a task that is impossible. Our relationship wasn’t perfect. Filled with miniature problems that seemed to void once we addressed it. Yet, something was stopping us. Outside pressure. Peer pressure. Pressure. The thought about dating someone who was a year younger than me. The thought of going from seeing each other everyday to once in a while. Committed to her, I knew I had felt a different way.