Dearest Dear,

    This is my last attempt
    The very same people
    who I'm going to miss.
    Tears stream down my cheek.
    My head feels heavy,
    limbs go weak.
    Darkness surrounds me.
    Blankness,
    no sound
    I feel my body drifting
    I hear a scream, I hear a moan
    Oh Guardian Angel!
    It was my family
    I want my family back.
    No sound out my mouth,
    Only in my mind.
    No one to help me,
    No one for me to find.
    I start to yell...
    Please get me out of this hell!
    Please get me out of this hell!
    I give up!!!!
    
     I open my eyes, and look around
     I am  lying in a hospital bed
     No one makes a sound
     "Sorry" is all I say.
     Mother starts crying,  Father is sad.
     I got a bear hug from Papa.
     I still manage a small smile,
     And close my eyes for a while.
     Forget all the bad days,
     I'm leaving them in the past.
     Misty clouds vanish and,
     The new Aurora commence.
          
    * Sincerely
    * Haritha

I miss my mom so I try to recreate her presence with things I attribute to her: oil of Olay beauty fluid, Romance perfume, bright lipstick even if it’s the only makeup being worn, a sense of gratitude and readiness, a generous laughter, uncountable **** jokes, an appreciation of innovation and novelty, a hearty appetite for everything: life, food, knowledge, growth, and being firmly grounded in faith.

I have not found this composition of authenticity anywhere else, the perfect molecular formulation that gave shine to her eyes and confidence to her smile. And she was my mom, so I could boast and brag about any and all my achievements and she would multiply them, own them, honour them and wear them on her heart like a badge.

“Be all things that you loved about the people you’ve lost”, goes the saying. How? It’s impossible! Yet I try.

I have resorted to cutting onions freehand in circles for my salan like her, rather than the fancy crescents requiring a chopping board, (that I adopted as a statement that I was more refined and evolved than her). I used to make fun of her for tearing open her teabags as tea tasted better to her when freely floating in water. Now I’ve switched to loose tea. I readily bought amla, haritha and sikakai when I saw them in a local Indian store, though I had vehemently opposed all her attempts while growing up, to incorporate these to my hair care routine. (She had black hair at age 69 when she died. I started having grey at 27. In south Asian cultures this is a big thing). During her life, I was always rebellious to her methods. Now, I have submitted to their wisdom and simplicity.

The organic nature of life is to recycle things as they complete their turn. I cling on to my mom’s quintessence in the spirit of recycling them through me. I try to say the durood every morning as I wake up like she did, and count three good things of the day before I sleep like she did. I do everything I can as she would have liked. And I still miss her. I have even grown to love missing her, in a subterranean way , as this way she stays with me.

Today the missing has surfaced, like the supermoon of last night, causing super waves, tsunami perhaps. It will wane. With time. But love shall remain.

Arshia
31.8.23