We have a memory box that we rattle from time to time. Out comes the scents of our childhood, the comfort food that our mothers made and which our taste buds haven’t forgotten, voices from the past (joyful, anxious, drowned in sorrow), the bitter memories of lost loves, friendships that unravelled, the lazy, carefree days that passed in a summer haze.
Things which remind me of my mom are everywhere. Like markers. Like the trail of light that emanates from a lighthouse. The smell of bread, a mashed potato sandwich, every feminist I meet…
They say it feels better when you cry, but it actually doesn’t. It just feels barren, empty, a sky devoid of clouds, soulless.
Buddhism tells you that change is inevitable. The Bhagvad Gita that you should not expect any results from your actions to be spared the grief. As a child, these concepts seemed so simple, hardly the precepts of two great spiritual paths.
Running on loop in my mind, is the fact that mom is gone. One more year has passed, it’s been now three years. The grief, though, seems fresh as yesterday, even more poignant. It doesn’t even require an anniversary, every Saturday looms large and insurmountable, a remembrance of that fateful day when she passed on.
Innocence lies in the small things, stuff that you didn’t realise the significance to, until you lost it forever.
Expectations – Buddhism believes that they are the cause of great suffering. The expectation that your friends will always remain your friends, that they will be loyal to you, that the feeling of companionship will remain to the same extent over time.
A star exploding is so much like heartbreak.
In the larger scheme of things, she is somewhere out there, but she is irretrievably lost to me forever, like a child lost on her way home.
On some days, we wake up to see a footprint on the living room floor.