Three months, Mom, of living you in my heart and in the silence. Of looking at your photograph and bursting into tears. Three months of whispered conversations as I tend the house, seeking your advice, your guidance—three months of mourning, of this ancient and yet entirely new life.
Each day, you linger in my thoughts, a gentle presence. I cry for you and become saddened. I search for you and in your remembrance, there blooms a quiet joy. Amid tears, I smile, nestled in the maternal embrace of nostalgia.
I remember you. I remember you. I remember you.
I search for you in my notebook where I pour out these lines, in the songs we used to listen to, in the pictures where your smile remains undefeated. I search for you in the afternoons when I am alone in the corner of the room where I sit to write and in the little plants that, imitating you, I have learned to care for. I yearn for your gaze, your attention wrapped around my words. Your words. And I find you, Mom, in the tears that descend heavily down my cheeks, staining the lines with salt.
In every syllable, in the irrefutable genetics mirrored in the mirror, in the cadence of joyous music and the melancholic chords, I find you.
You are not alone, my dearest. We stride in tandem between today and memory, amidst the fatigue of existence and the bittersweet farewell, navigating the spectrum from tears to laughter. We connect in silence, although without the warmth of your body.
To death, I offer gratitude for the solace of your companionship. Your steps, whispering alongside me with the certainty of faith.