By Sebastian Moraga
Mother's love grows by giving.
~Charles Lamb
My mom and I left my brother Oscar in college while we moved across the world to reunite with my dad at his job relocation. It was 1994. I was fifteen and leaving a school I hated. My mother left behind the frustrations of living in a third-world country but she also left Oscar -- her elder son and longtime confidant.
Mother's love grows by giving.
~Charles Lamb
My mom and I left my brother Oscar in college while we moved across the world to reunite with my dad at his job relocation. It was 1994. I was fifteen and leaving a school I hated. My mother left behind the frustrations of living in a third-world country but she also left Oscar -- her elder son and longtime confidant.
Ten years my senior, Oscar is my half-brother. But he's bailed me out of more trouble than I care to remember, and that's a real brother in my book. He's an even better son. Oscar and Mom have always been there for each other.
Although we left Chile in the heat of summer, the gray February skies of Seattle matched the mood that fell upon my usually cheerful mother. Pictures of Oscar inundated the coffee table, Mom's nightstand, and my room.
I still remember how she cried when his first letters arrived. With no job or money, Oscar tried to sound strong. He wrote how the teddy bears she had left made him feel "like the house was full." Although she knew he was struggling, she could do nothing about it.
But as my mom says, "When God closes a door, he always opens a window." During one of our English lessons at the local library, she met another Chilean, a lanky forty-two-year-old electrician named Ramon, who had just arrived from Santiago, like us. Who was feeling lonely, like us. And who played chess -- well, like me.
As we played, he told us about his family in Chile, how he hated leaving them behind, and how I reminded him of his oldest son... all the while winning game after game of chess. I didn't like losing, so played less and less often with him. Still, Ramon visited our house. It wasn't me who invited him, nor my dad, although we both liked him.
"Ask Ramon if he wants to come for dinner," my mom offered.
"Ask Ramon if he wants to come for tea," she urged.
"Ask Ramon if he wants to come for donuts," she insisted.
Her invitations were endless, and since Ramon was the only friend I had in America, I happily obliged. Besides, we had switched to checkers.
During Ramon's visits, conversation invariably touched on my absent brother, and Mom seemed a great deal happier. Gone was her quivering lip; she seemed cheerful and optimistic. And she always insisted Ramon stay a little longer and eat a little more.
Her emphasis on eating caught my attention. Always health-conscious, always watching her waistline (and mine) closely, she went out of her way to feed Ramon. Even the foods she always avoided weren't off-limits anymore. For Ramon, that is.
A darker-minded person might have suspected something, but I knew anything dishonorable was out of the question. Why Ramon? Why all this attention for someone she met less than three months ago? And why, wondered this hungry teenage boy, so much food?
Her answer hit me hard.
"Because," she said, "Ramon is here alone, and our Oscar is in Chile alone. And if there's somebody here feeding Ramon, I believe there's somebody down there feeding Oscar."
Mom wasn't just feeding Ramon because he was too skinny; she was patching the tear in her heart, one spoonful at a time.
Although we left Chile in the heat of summer, the gray February skies of Seattle matched the mood that fell upon my usually cheerful mother. Pictures of Oscar inundated the coffee table, Mom's nightstand, and my room.
I still remember how she cried when his first letters arrived. With no job or money, Oscar tried to sound strong. He wrote how the teddy bears she had left made him feel "like the house was full." Although she knew he was struggling, she could do nothing about it.
But as my mom says, "When God closes a door, he always opens a window." During one of our English lessons at the local library, she met another Chilean, a lanky forty-two-year-old electrician named Ramon, who had just arrived from Santiago, like us. Who was feeling lonely, like us. And who played chess -- well, like me.
As we played, he told us about his family in Chile, how he hated leaving them behind, and how I reminded him of his oldest son... all the while winning game after game of chess. I didn't like losing, so played less and less often with him. Still, Ramon visited our house. It wasn't me who invited him, nor my dad, although we both liked him.
"Ask Ramon if he wants to come for dinner," my mom offered.
"Ask Ramon if he wants to come for tea," she urged.
"Ask Ramon if he wants to come for donuts," she insisted.
Her invitations were endless, and since Ramon was the only friend I had in America, I happily obliged. Besides, we had switched to checkers.
During Ramon's visits, conversation invariably touched on my absent brother, and Mom seemed a great deal happier. Gone was her quivering lip; she seemed cheerful and optimistic. And she always insisted Ramon stay a little longer and eat a little more.
Her emphasis on eating caught my attention. Always health-conscious, always watching her waistline (and mine) closely, she went out of her way to feed Ramon. Even the foods she always avoided weren't off-limits anymore. For Ramon, that is.
A darker-minded person might have suspected something, but I knew anything dishonorable was out of the question. Why Ramon? Why all this attention for someone she met less than three months ago? And why, wondered this hungry teenage boy, so much food?
Her answer hit me hard.
"Because," she said, "Ramon is here alone, and our Oscar is in Chile alone. And if there's somebody here feeding Ramon, I believe there's somebody down there feeding Oscar."
Mom wasn't just feeding Ramon because he was too skinny; she was patching the tear in her heart, one spoonful at a time.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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