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…
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.
As I attended a session yesterday on feminism and surmounting abuse, I kept thinking of mom. Everyday that I go out and try to reclaim a bit of space for me, enter an uncharted territory where I am not welcome or speak up about women’s rights, I am following in her giant footsteps.
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.
There is also something achingly sad about the photo, about a wedding where only a father and daughter are there, and the mother is missing on this happy occasion.
Like a photograph whose edges get smudged over time, memories also get indistinct and blurred. They might get an unfamiliar tinge or end up sticking to each other or acquire a certain sequence in hindsight.
Life is all about twists and turns. My mom had four brothers and two sisters. All of them were poles apart from each other and landed up in very different situations.
At the end of the day, we are who we are. And we may not be perfect for everyone, but even if you manage to help or impact one person, it’s all been worth it.