Beauty her name

It is. Literally translated.

You've all heard me whinge about her aplenty. A privileged few have suffered her first-hand. But did I ever mention that -

One of my earliest memories is walking with her, head barely up to her hip, arm sore from reaching for hers, and straining to keep up as well as in sync with the click-clack of her heels.

Everytime I saw her emerge from the classroom, chalk dust all over her shoulders and hands, surrounded by adoring chittering students, I thought to myself: Woah, my mum's superhero.

When I was old enough to not deface documents at will, she let me help with marking. It must've taken her longer to prepare a marking guide, supervise, and double-check - than to simply mark the lot herself. But she knew I liked 'working with' her.

She speaks like she's singing. She sings.

Her noodle soup is DA BOM. Before I learned patience and rationing and digging, she'd bury the goodies (fishballs, egg, meat, internal organs, etc.) underneath the noodles, so that I finished with goodies rather than plain noodles. Now there's a lesson for life.

She did all her clothes-shopping with me, and always gave me the final say.

We had the odd visit by vermin (no metaphor; that's a whole other post); show me a household in all of Middle Kingdom that didn't anyway. She had such a knack for cornering the speeding fur-ball and putting it out of its misery with various household items.

...

On this day, to the first woman I ever loved.