The Value of Hawaii 2: Ancestral Roots, Oceanic Visions

Mother

MOTHER FAITH PASCUA At night in my house when everyone should be sleeping, eyes closed, minds drifting towards wonderland, She’s still awake in the living room, flipping through memories of what used to be, She’s crying wishing her storied scrapbook past was reality again. She reminisces over pages of smiles; compiled accomplishments enough to fill miles of trophy cases. She was the original Dust Buster Dirt Devil housekeeper, Winner of the 2006 Housekeeper of the Year award. She remembers wanting to vacuum the red carpet something majestic; Floors so shiny, you could see your inner child in the reflection. She idolizes perfection. That hotel was her home away from home, her fortress of solitude, and it has been for over 16 years. She cleans hotel rooms; finds the history in dirty laundry, closet skeletons, and linens. Knows what happens in honeymoon suites, and capable to clean the fuck out of them. She knows that business trips are filled with more personal endeavors anyway, Seeing infidelity with the mistake of forgetting the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob; she has seen it all. Pascua, Mother 19 Until last fall when my brother and I watched her crumble under the fall of the economy, The uncertainty placed her waiting by the phone. She’s on-call for work now. Today she’s number 4 but they didn’t even make it to 3 . . . This job is her first baby, 16 years in the making, not having the experience quite yet, (New to baby bottles and cleaning products) at first this job was just to pay the bills, just for now, just until . . . It became her passion, found sanctuary in her pink-flowered uniform, and comfort-gelled shoes She’s my mother, sobbing solo under the single light in the living room, Resisting to open her scrapbook, trying to not find a reason to be angry at the supernatural, because she’s losing faith. Like a flickering candle . . . When she thinks no one is around, she still tries her uniform on; this is her battle suit. Her idle hands turn to iron and from Wonder Woman to wondering woman, she feels like she lost her super powers. My mother is an aglet, found at the tip of shoelaces, she’s capable of keeping your sole in place, She will tell you she loves you by just being there . . . but she’s forgotten. Her paycheck is the only way she remembers her value, that coming home without one renders her useless. Mommy, you are not an ATM, not an automated teller machine, Worth is not measured in money; your amount balance will never be zero to me. See no one remembers what an aglet is. No one cares about the life of the housekeeper who cleaned their hotel room. But mom, you are more than a source of income. 20 ALOHA You’re my monster-in-the-closet inspector, and the detector of sorrow and sobbing anywhere. And when the shake of the money problem earthquake leaves our home, I want you to know: I love you more than a laid-off full-time housekeeper, but my full-time mother. Assuring you that even if your faith fades away, I will always be here. ...