Mother, Where and How Art Thou

          Growing up, I never saw my mother. That could be seen as a lie as I did see my mother, just rarely. I rarely saw my father too, and that can at times hurt a little; when I'm asked on who my parents are or what they do, I explain but don't go heavily into detail. With Mother's Day, that can be somewhat conflicting.
          It's okay to have certain feelings, of course. That's what makes us human. I was raised on the edge of East Los Angeles by my grandparents until the age of fourteen, right around when my grandfather passed away due to unknown reasons (at least to me, for I've never asked my family how or why he died). But me and my brother were happy regardless of our folks, who spent the week working: our father was a truck driver, and our mother is still currently a supervisor at Southern California's Gas Company. We would visit them on weekends by means of car, picked up by our father, inhaling the smoke of his cigarettes as it would coat the windows in ash. I always told my parents I had reasons why I can't smell.
          But the weekends were always happy memories. Mom would take us to the grocery store, and we would get cookies, fresh baked from the bakery. She would drive us early at dawn to Disneyland, a place that today is still a large part of my life for the memories we created; I'll never forget the week we took off of school to attend Disneyland's 50th Anniversary. I still have the souvenirs from that weekend.
          Sadly, our father was in a serious car accident that crippled him to a permanent limp. I don't remember how old I was, but again, I didn't know the severity at the time--he was delivering food to the local Mcdonald's on Central ave in Chino, when a car spread through parking lot, ran him over the hood and left him on the ground with a broken neck.
          He got back up and went straight to work until he could work no more.

Mom on the Las Vegas strip during a vacation.

          However, Mom pushed through it and still drove us where she could, cooked what we enjoyed, and took care of the house while Dad was recuperating. He never grew stronger, so he sits in the living room on a large leather chair. He watches television and reads, doing what he can to help.
           When I was in second grade, I had a freak accident and broke my right femur, supposedly the strongest bone in my body (of course, I took it to the challenge to prove science wrong). Immediately I was taken to the hospital by my grandmother, who phoned my mother. I was medicated and fell asleep under the pain, waking up occasionally to scream; the memory of crying at night with the cold, rigid metal brace against my back and mangled thigh is something I'll never forget. When I awoke, Mom was there, and for the next three months, working to get healthy so I could be home for Christmas, I found her staying at the side of my bed through the tears and joy. It wasn't until a week ago that I learned she was told by the doctor at the time I might have had bone cancer due to the broken femur. She told me, as I prepared for work, that she cried hard that day.
          And now when I'm soon to reach 21, a serious achievement for me after a couple of years of stress and fear, she is still there for me--for us--taking care of the family the best she can. Dad's unable to work due to his handicap, but he gets a check in from time to time, and Mom works every day of the week, late or early, and she even works weekends--the woman has 8 weeks worth of vacation saved for crying out loud.
         Growing older as an young author, I look back to see what parts of my history could make a story that affects people inside. The idea of changing someones life and proving to them they're not alone is something I strive for, and it's difficult. It really is. When ideas are dry, and the game system calls me, however, I think on my family, and especially my mother. She's showed me out of everyone that it's possible to have the strength to do anything, and I thank her for that.
          Now, if only I had the strength to clean my room.