Fifty Four!

Dear Diary,

The night is long and the mind is unsettled. Cold memories are regaining life and cutting through the present like a sharp blade. The past tastes just like whatever I ate for supper and the need to spew some of it here has brought forth these words.

My favourite girl has rested for the last twenty two years. Her anniversary comes on the tenth of this month. Today, just two days later, her birthday comes through. If she lived long enough to see the devastation of the current pandemic, she would've turned fifty four today.

I miss her presence more than anything.

My mother was dark. She wore the colour of the night like a fitting gown. She had a smile that time can't seem to wipe out of my mind. Her voice is fading away together with my minimal memories of her.

Her other two daughters think I remind them of her. Her unfiltered love for children. Her generosity. Her loud laughter. They usually compare me to her. It's humbling but I believe they are wrong.

You see, my mother was no ordinary woman. She embodied other elements that somehow I am yet to unlock. Keep in mind that I have surpassed her existence with four extra years now. She was too wise. Too calm. Too collected even while going through hell. Too confident.

She simply knew what she was doing.

I on the other hand, have been finding myself as I parent my own. How then can there be comparison between me and the woman who moulded half of the woman I am? Even in her death, her words have been a guide through my entire life.

When I think about her, the more I think she somehow felt like she wouldn't live long. And so in her own way she readied me for the unpredictable journey ahead. I have always found myself thinking in terms of -what would have my mum said about this?- when there is a crucial decision that needs to be made.

Her demise came with so much negative vibes from my relatives. A few things that she insisted on while on her deathbed became too obvious too fast. I remember sinking to the ground behind my grandparents smoking kitchen and breaking down there.

The smoke would be the culprit if anyone asked why I looked like I was crying or why my eyes were red. I was forbidden from mourning my mum as that would have made it seem like I was a neglected orphan according to my folks. They believed it would bring shame to them as a family and we were made aware. I have never forgiven them for that.

And I think I should stop there. See you soon!