As I finish the last sentence of Lois Lowry’s ‘The Giver’, I can still feel sheer shock reverberating around my head, the tangible pounding of my heart against my chest. Reality then hits me a few seconds later, and I feel myself slowly being sucked away from the world of Jonas’s, and back into my own. I take in a deep breath. In, out, in, out. I realise how lucky I am to live in my world. Filled with sorrow, greed, jealousy, pride and pains; yet bursting with colours, freedom, joy, love—life, simply put.
“Darling, where are you?” A voice calls out. I lift my eyes from the book’s slightly browned page, and find my mother’s warm eyes looking into mine, etched with concern. She swiftly enters the room. A wave of hot air filled with the smell of sweat hits me as my mother approaches. Result of a day’s work.
“I’ve been calling for a million times and you haven’t responded! I missed you, darling.” Precision of language, a sarcastic voice creeps into my head, jeering at the misuse of the word million. I focus on my mother instead, an effort to push the thought to the back of my mind. She wraps a hand around my shoulder, and then gives a gentle squeeze. I try to hold my breath, but as I’m held in my mother’s embrace I can’t help but respond by hugging her back tightly, spilling out all my suppressed emotions. Result of an inner turmoil caused by today’s reading.
“I missed you too, Mum. Welcome home.” I manage to say, my voice muffled by my mother’s shoulder. She then smiles softly, and proceeds to leave the room. “Continue with what you were doing, dear. Don’t let me interrupt your concentration.”
I stare at her retreating figure. The lady I call my mother. She’s not the type of woman that would set heads turning at a glimpse of her, and God knows she’s definitely not supermodel material. Far from that kind of beauty. But in my eyes, she’s the most beautiful woman I could ever meet. I would never change a single thing about my mother, because her imperfections make her perfect. I don’t think I would change anything about my life either, although I occasionally wished that it would be less complicated. But its imperfections make it perfect, in my eyes. I am thankful for that little fact. Second by second, I cherish my life more and more. I cherish it for what I have, and what I will never have.
So many have tried to perceive and achieve perfection throughout the course of Mankind’s history. They do in vain. In the end, what it is that matters most to us? I suppose the answer to that question will be forever out of our grasp.
