O Mother of mine

Ma Amar (mother of mine), in these words lie the genealogy, the ties that bind me and mom; the three decades worth of complicated relationships with many special redeeming all-is-forgiven moments. It denotes my intricate internal circuit board where wires are laid thickly and intertwined in a confused jumble.

With her gone I am in a state of chaos, the power suddenly gone. Yes, we infuriated each other, couldn’t see eye to eye often and rarely understood each other at a basic level (strangely dad could, with both of us) and towards the end I wished for relief for her and for us (24/7 care giving had worn us down), yet I still selfishly wish there was just one more day with her, a day when I just held her hand, looked in the horizon and spoke of nothing, just ate happily and played board games (she was ultra competitive, and me a sore loser, bad combination).

Happiness is made of such little things, it’s a wonder it takes us so long to actually do these things while we run behind things that matter so little.

And while people ask why I ponder on such things while seeming to have coped very well in day-to-day life, I have no answers. Except to refer to Meghan O’Rourke’s description of the days after losing her mother as entering a world where there’s suddenly no sky. Or to draw from Haruki Murakami’s imagery of a world where there are suddenly two moons.

The truth may be irrefutable but that doesn’t make it any more palatable or less of a challenge to accept.

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