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HONORING MY MOTHER | Buy one take none

By Icoy San Pedro

MY family and I were once again at the mall over the weekend to get some stuff for the house. As was the usual, we would go our separate ways for a bit, to get what was on our personal lists and then meet up later. In less than an hour, we could either be at the cahier’s counter or at a certain fave watering hole for light snacks. It’s at these spots where we’d pow-wow and share whatever, they be interesting things we’ve seen so far, friends and people we might have met or any small incident that might have caught our fancy out from the ordinary. At least, the routine takes a significant bit out of the bore in going aisle to aisle and pushing an old cart with non-cooperative wheels.

Anyways, during one such snack break, the mum joked about a buy-one-take-one bottle of disinfectant she had wanted to buy but didn’t get, because the bottle was the last one on the shelf. The sign should have read: buy one, take what, I quipped. She kidded the saleslady; couldn’t you just take it off the shelf? The supervisor’s decision ma’am, not ours. Strict-strict naman, this mall.

When it came to priced-down items and other bargains, hands-down, the mum’s our solitary expert. And almost always, she would get our attention or text us to come huddle for a moment at wherever she was, and check out what she’s discovered. It could either be a shirt or any piece of clothing we needed to look-see and might be interested in buying or something for the house or the car that we might want. In short, anything under the mall roof that was on sale.

This was just another amazing asset of our lone lady of the house: her strict and narrowed-down criteria for purchases. As much as possible, the items we get to buy should preferably be on sale, should be on the grocery list and last but not least, should really be needed in the household. No compulsive buying for her. Too bad for that lone bottle of alcohol disinfectant, it should have made the cut.

As for myself, the lone senior in this trinity, the weekend grocery runs double up as my welcome breaks that keep the old legs from atrophying. Mind you, in the old days which only seemed years ago, they could run and slide with ease on the tennis courts. Now, its owner is in constant search of the softest and most comfy insoles that, not only are with memory foam but also with massage quality dimples that remind the feet to stay awake. Sadly, none such exist as yet. Because of this, the weekend sortie always ends as pathetically as the previous other. While my son and the mum hurries off to the car in the underground parking space with all the heavier grocery bags, I’m always last in our family race that eventually leads to and beings us home.“Life is good” 



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