My mother is my hero. I would lay down my life for this woman and still consider it inadequate repayment for all the sacrifices she has made for me. She constantly amazes me with her seemingly inexhaustible energy levels, her unshakeable faith, her resolute conviction that “everything will be all right”. Being the eldest of three sons, I have known her longest; ipso facto, I love her the most.

When I tell her I need to assist my mate Andrew with a fishing trip, she is none too happy about it.

“Selwyn,” she says to me in that familiar long-suffering tone. I know I truly try her patience with my obstinacy and fierce independence, but I am also acutely aware of the fact that she can never say no to me for anything. I admit: I shamefully exploit her soft-heartedness.

“Selwyn, why must you go out at this time of the month, at the end of the year, when both you and that good-for-nothing Andrew are aware of how unpredictable the sea can be? His boat is only barely being held together by hope and a prayer, and you want to go out and tempt Fate today?”

I laugh at her and say, “Good lord, Mama. You’ve really missed your calling.”

“What do you mean?” she asks as she busies herself with the preparation for the evening meal. I know I will probably come home to leftovers tonight, as my two younger brothers are gluttons, but I don’t mind too much. I know Mama will ensure that there’s a meal for me.

My heart suddenly melts with love for her as I look at her completing ten tasks at once. She is in her late sixties; the years have left their scars on her in the deep lines mapping her careworn face. The burden of bearing the whims of difficult years can be seen in the slight limp of her left leg as a result of a stroke she suffered but conquered at the age of forty-seven; in the tight curl of her fingers warped by arthritis; in the way her back is stooped from bending over to light wood stove fires, sweeping and mopping stubborn floors, and doing the laundry. Yet, she is such a force of nature that upon first meeting her or being in her company for any length of time, all her body’s twists and deformities become invisible to the observer. One only sees her strength radiate from her like tangible waves of overwhelming energy.

“Selwyn?” she says, bringing me back to myself. “What’s my real calling, according to you?” she now asks, a mischievous glint in her gray eyes. Reminiscing about what those eyes have witnessed over the years nearly sends me off on another tangent, but I wrestle my straying mind back to the present to answer her.

“You should have been an actress, Mama. You’re so dramatic you would’ve been a natural on stage,” I tease her, waiting for the inevitable lightning-fast kick she would aim at my shin. I’m not disappointed, but having been ready, I easily dodge it.

“Disrespectful little brat!” Mama says in mock anger. “I should have let you starve as a babe, then you wouldn’t have been here now to vex me so,” she adds. As she puts the last of the vegetables into the pot, simultaneously giving the boiling rice pot a stir or two, my second youngest brother, Elias, enters the kitchen.

“Mama, Clint and I have finished nailing down the lights around the roof and the chimney. Do you want us to start putting up the inside decorations?” he asks. Both he and Clint love this time of the year, but I’ve never been one for the “festive season”. I always tell anybody who’s interested in listening to me that it’s “all just a money making scheme”.

“That would be great, honey,” Mama says as she places the marinated pieces of chicken in the oven. Elias gives her a happy smile before he runs out to the lounge where Clint is presumably unpacking the boxes we had earlier taken out of storage in the attic.

“If I had died as a babe,” I now continue the conversation, “you would’ve died a little with me, Mama,” I joke with her. Her reaction surprises me.

“God forbid that anything should ever happen to you!” she exclaims vehemently, grabbing my lengthy, bearish frame to her chest as if I weighed no more than a toddler. Hugging me fiercely, she says, “I was only jesting, Selwyn, but I should have known better. You’re the very essence of my soul, the beat of my heart, dear boy, and I would sooner starve myself than let you suffer in any way.”

Shocked by her outburst, I resort to my default mode, that of the oafish comedian, and say, “See? Drama queen. I told you that you missed your calling!”

Fortunately, this time my flippancy is exactly the right attitude for the situation, and Mama is able to smile, releasing me and going back to checking on her cooking.

“Be safe out there, Selwyn. The ocean does not take as kindly as I do to insouciance. She demands respect at all times,” Mama advises me.

“I know, I know,” I say with a laugh. “Anyway, I’m off. I should be back by seven tonight, seeing that the sun stays out longer in summer.”

“The Lord be with you, my boy,” Mama blesses me as I pass her on my way to the front door.

I have the slightest, but only the slightest, of misgivings when I step outside and become aware that the wind has picked up. Then I tell myself it would be good for the voyage, as a strong breeze could only be favourable for sailing. The last sound I hear coming from our seaside cottage is the joyful laughter of my boisterous brothers.

Image: Irina Galeeva (www.unsplash.com)