ABOUT AN ELEPHANT-SIZED LOVE
ABOUT AN ELEPHANT-SIZED LOVE.
A CROCODILE-LONGING.
A HIPPOPOTAMUS-SIZED CARE.
AND A HEART THAT SINGS WITH LOUD ROOSTERS.
“Are you nervous?”—a voice from the side asks, interrupting me. I’ve been, for a good five minutes, nose-deep in my phone, zooming in on a photo.
“Me? No, I’m not nervous,” I lie, forcing a smile without even tinting my rosy cheeks. “Why would I be nervous? I sent my smart, big kid off to a week-long, structured camp. He went of his own choice. Excited,” I add.
With clumsy fingers, I try to “pack” the single troop photo uploaded by the camp leaders, the one I’ve just been analyzing with all my visual powers. From the corner of the photo, probably less than a square millimeter, I’ve been trying for a good five minutes to read the face of my nine-year-old “soldier.” What are his eyes saying?
Sad?
Tired?
Missing home?
To the human eye, the face might be hard to read.
But to a mother’s eye—no problem.
No problem at all…
Look long enough, and you could write an A4 page analysis about what you can read from those almost invisible eyes.
It’s the start of the week.
We’ve left our big nine-year-old DO at a strict schedule camp for a week.
We didn’t force him. He chose himself.
We nodded in approval. Delivered him safely.
We reviewed the signed agreement again: if something happens—call.
If no call—everything’s fine.
And in the evenings—if he wants—he’s allowed a fifteen-minute conversation.
We handed over the “ticket” and turned on our heels, walking quickly to the car.
Not to rush to enjoy freedom, but so I wouldn’t burst out blubbering like a lovesick rooster in the middle of the campsite, and not embarrass my child.
That same evening.
I sit, phone in hand, waiting.
Check the connection. Perfect.
No call.
I lift the phone higher, thinking maybe it’s just showing signal, maybe some glitch.
Signal fine. No call.
Check the volume. On. No call.
Close other apps that might interfere. No call.
I sit, propped up, almost talking to the phone:
“Call me, my beloved.”
No call.
I think maybe it froze. Should I restart?
But then: “What if he calls while I’m rebooting?”
So I wait. No call.
That night, he didn’t call.
“Willpower must be trained,” my father used to say.
I trained.
All the next day.
And the whole week.
Eighteen times I cast my eye toward the phone, like casting a fishing line: “Is it time? Can he call yet?”
Mentally, I “calculate” how long until the “victorious” 7 PM.
Sneakily check the camp’s page for news to “zoom in” on.
Nothing.
I sigh like an old steam engine.
Feelings intertwine like vines.
Appetite has gone on vacation.
Thoughts collapsed to one side.
Longing takes up residence in my eyes.
Care settles comfortably in my mind.
My heart weighed down by nine “pins.”
And to make it feel bigger, additionally—it’s squeezed by the largest pliers from the garage toolbox.
Living through the whole week like this, I remembered small sentences from my mother throughout life:
“Call when you get home.”
“Let me know if you arrived safely.”
“Don’t linger if you can help it.”
“Tell me how things are.”
“If you’re late, just ring.”
At first, I rolled my eyes.
Later, very quietly—or at least in my mind—sigh many times, “What could happen to me…?”
Then countless times I’ve thought: “Why worry so much about NOTHING?”
And one time, a sentence pierced my mind forever:
“Just because you’re big, doesn’t mean I love you any less.”
Mothers don’t love by years.
Their love doesn’t care about your height or weight.
They don’t mind if your shoe size already surpasses theirs.
Their hearts don’t count your age.
You’re a baby. A child. A teenager. An adult. Or already elderly.
They don’t care about your clothing style.
Whether you’re a punk or impeccably groomed.
They don’t care if you’re married or single.
They don’t care if you live in the capital, abroad, or next door. Behind a fence.
Vegetarian or meat-eater, sporty or missing sneakers.
Punctual or perpetually late.
Mothers love being near.
Love from a distance.
Love when you leave and when you return.
And especially love when we vanish from their line of sight.
Then that elephant-sized love combines with crocodile-long longing and hippo-sized care…
And the mother’s heart sings with nine loud-rooster voices.
The heart’s singing is magical.
It probably happens in the deepest corner of her heart, well soundproofed.
Inside, a thunderous concert of feelings:
Drums beat, electric guitars screech, brass and woodwinds drone.
Outside, you walk quieter than quiet.
No tears. No complaints.
But if you look into her eyes, you want to ask, “What happened?”
A week without my heart’s captain DO.
And with my own heart’s intense singing patched up.
Every morning, at lunch, in the evening, trying to sleep with tangled vines of thoughts.
You know what you want to do?
A) Grab the child tightly into your arms.
And then…
B) Hug your mother sincerely.
For all those times, when her heart, squeezed by longing pliers, rang with anxious pins deep inside, singing in a loud-rooster chorus—only we didn’t hear it.
For mothers.
Young and old.
Brand new, rocking not the first baby.
For gray-haired mothers, still painting over their worries.
For mothers watching like eagles, raising noses behind glasses.
For mothers living in cities and villages.
Present, future, and…
“There are no former” mothers.
Through the life-long concerts of their hearts,
They “preserve” themselves to be ETERNAL.
Coincidentally, Facebook this morning “popped up” a memory.
Exactly nine years ago. Me and Captain DO.
V.
