Today marks 25 years since we lost ma.
It still feels unreal. Twenty-five years without seeing her, hearing her voice or feeling her presence in the every day ways that once felt so constant. What feels even harder to grasp is that she was the age I am now when we lost her so suddenly. I find myself thinking about that often… trying to make sense of it.
And yet, in a quiet, steady way, I have never stopped celebrating her.
My children never had the chance to meet their nani, but I tried to bring her to life to them. In our home, she lives in little anecdotes, in habits, in things I say without even realizing they came from her. My husband only met her briefly, but over the years, he’s come to know her through me too.
I have missed her at every milestone. Not in a loud way, but in that deep, familiar ache that shows up when you wish someone were there to see, to feel, to smile, to say something only they would say.
A few days ago, I had her in my dream. Nothing extraordinary happened, but she looked so alive, so real. For a moment, it felt like the old times. I woke up holding on to that feeling, quietly grateful for it.
There’s a quiet fear I carry within me. I have so few photographs of her. In fact, so few from my entire childhood. Sometimes I worry that one day I’ll close my eyes and not be able to recall her face clearly, not remember the exact way she looked when she smiled or called out to me. The thought of losing even that feels like a second kind of loss, one I am not sure how to prepare for.
One memory I return to often is how she would gently massage my head when I lay beside her. Her fingers were so light, so soothing. When we were very young, she would oil my hair with such patience, then wash it and tie it into neat little ponytails, taking so much care, as only mothers can do. It’s these little moments in time that I think of often.
Strangely, my love for food truly began after I lost her. I knew how to cook, but it was never something I felt deeply about. Over time, recreating the dishes she made so effortlessly became my way of keeping her close. Each such meal, in some small way, feels like a tribute.
Of course, what stays with me the most about her is her smile, and the way she loved. She was gentle, generous and full of heart. There are only a couple of times when I remember her getting mad. And then everyone hid, till the storm blew over. 🙂 But, otherwise she never shied about showing her love and affection. We may not have had close relatives growing up, but as a family unit, the five of us held close together bound by the glue of mum’s love.
Losing a parent leaves a space that nothing else can fill. It doesn’t matter how old you are when it happens. But, there is a space in your heart that never heals. What you can hold on to though are the memories; they carry you. They steady you. In my hardest moments, when I have felt lost or low, I’ve felt her presence in a quiet, reassuring way, as if she is still guiding me forward.
She wasn’t without her struggles. She lived with pain, with osteoporosis and fractures at a time when there was so little awareness about nutrition and bone health. I sometimes wish we had known then what we know now. That we could have supported her better.
To me, the word “mother” will always mean kindness, warmth, nurturing and unconditional love, because that’s who she was. That is what she showed me. And in many ways, it is how she shaped the mother I have tried to become.
Today is not an easy day. But it is also a day of remembrance, of gratitude, and of love.
I just hope to honour her by living the values she and Dad raised us with, and to celebrate my own partner and children, just like she did for us.
We miss you deeply, ma. Always.
Some other posts I have written about my mum over the years: My mother
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