Like Butterflies in a Net

I haven't been graced or privileged to find a community within my culture. Not since I moved. 
It was my mother that gave that to me. She was the glue that held me there, the proof I needed to exist in that space, like a certificate I could hold high. They'd look at her and it clicked when I stood beside her. It was the only thing that made sense.
She carried me so far until the biracial weight was too much for the both of us.
I feel like without her, I'm just some sort of fraud. An imposter, a phoney. Too ambiguous and too English to be allowed in certain circles. My mom was my ticket for that train, and it's like I'm standing alone on the platform because I missed the last one. Dreading having to step off of it, feeling as if I do, there's nothing beyond it.

When I recount memories, she has always been my bridge; and I constantly worry about the day it burns down. 
She is always a voice I hear in the back of my mind, whether I need it or not.

I could probably tell you all the times I thought I found someone - a friend, a tita, an ate. Someone that forgave my lack, and I could stop trying to prove who I was. Realizing later that these relationships were shallow, fragile, easily came apart when circumstances changed.
Feeling like the lumpia wrapper I didn't fold tightly enough and now the contents are spilling out and can't keep it together. 
Constantly exhausted of overexplaining and over performing, but can't seem to stop it. 

Holding my breath, trying to find glimpses of who I think I am and catching them like butterflies in a net.
I find one when I sing the words to Zak Tabudlo, not knowing what they mean while they flow from me easily.
And then wish I had someone to sing it with me.

I find it when Ate down the hall at work speaks to me in Tagalog and I can mostly understand her, when she gushes over me and I can't tell if it's genuine or not. 
And then wish she'd sit down for lunch with me like they all do.

I find it when I subconsciously prepare more food than I needed for that dinner, and tell you to please god take the leftovers.
And then wish I was preparing it for one of many Filipino gatherings I won't be at.

I find it when I step off the plane and into the hot, sticky NAIA air. Parts of me wishing I didn't have to leave.

I find it when my mom calls me, asking if I've eaten already or did you work today even though it's Wednesday, and opo nay my schedule is always the same.
When I ask my lash tech to push the button on my watch to answer her call mid appointment, and she listens to my mom speak to me in a language she doesn't understand and I reply in mostly English.
And then wish I could reach out and touch her through the phone. 

Hoping that if I let my breath out they don't flit away. 

I still haven't gotten it quite figured out, the how-to of accepting when you're not accepted. Learning to be your own community, when community was never defined as lonesome. Wanting to celebrate in all the ways that don't feel the same without someone to relate.
I wear my duster around the house, just missing the walis (even though I was told I look like "a little Japanese wife"). I'll cook my mom's dishes, even just for myself, a reminder that she'll always make them better - with one leg up on the chair while I eat it. I'll hang my parole in season, meaning way too early and keep it much too long for Canadian tastes. I'll spearhead karaoke nights, beg to go to that place with the ube dessert. 
Most days it doesn't feel like enough - but every so often, I try and let myself relish in all these little things and do my best to hang on to them, tenaciously.