Mama

In the last few days, when you could no longer speak, when everyone else had left the hospital room and it was just the two of us alone together, I sat by your bedside and took your hand and placed it against my cheek and I told you all the things I wanted to say for all the years I knew you weren't going to be here.

I told you that I was sorry that you wouldn’t see me turn thirty. That you wouldn’t see me fall in love, madly and truly. That we wouldn’t get the chance to argue about planning my wedding. That you wouldn’t see me have children, and struggle to raise a family without your help and advice.

I told you that what really mattered though, was that I would always your baby, your youngest, the one you always championed and believed in, when no one else would or could, and how you were without a doubt, my biggest, unconditional, fan. That you were the best mother that you could have been to Naz and I, the best wife to Papa, and that you took care and loved all of us without any wanting. That no matter how much I would miss you, that we would all miss you, you didn’t have to hold on and be strong for us anymore, that we would take care of each other, and that we would all be okay.

They were the most difficult words to have to say to anyone, the hardest sight to watch you go through so much pain, and it broke my heart when you finally left us in that window of twenty minutes or so when Papa and I couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore, as we both slumped over in our rattan chairs beside your bed, drained and fatigued, in that grey time before night turned into morning on 29 March 2011.

I walked towards your bed and touched your hands and your feet, the ones I had gotten to know so well, like my own hands and feet, from months of massaging them, trying to ease the numbness. They were still warm, and it looked like you were finally sleeping peacefully, no longer in pain.

I wake up every morning thinking about you because this was your hour. While the rest of us were usually asleep, you would potter around the living room, holding your half cup of coffee, still in your pajamas, enjoying the quiet of the early light. I open my eyes, and my stomach feels hollow when it hits me that you’re really no longer here. It almost feels like a big joke or a bad dream – I had believed that these things happen to other people, other families, not ours.

The three of us sit quietly sometimes and talk about you. When Papa dropped his wallet in the car park of the supermarket the other day, thankfully realizing it in time, and doubling back to pick it up, Naz and I talked about how you would have chided and scolded him for being so careless. When we ordered enough seafood at Mei King Fatt to feed not one incomplete family, but 5 families, Papa said, you had wanted to eat here before you fell sick, so we’ll eat as much as we can on your behalf.

We talk about all the wonderful dishes you loved to cook and how nothing would ever taste quite like your Nasi Briyani or Salmon Masak Assam or Daging Dendeng, how students, diplomats, ministers, royal families, even astronauts would remember how well you fed them. We laugh when we remember how you could make friends with anyone and everyone if you really wanted to, from the fruit seller whom you helped find a spot to sell his produce, to Utan, the faithful and loyal driver who came and sought advice from you, years after you left Iran. You were charming, worldly, vibrant and generous to all the people you touched. We remember all the stories about Jojo that you use to repeat over and over again, and how much joy and light he brought to you. We talk about how effortlessly stylish you were, how young looking and beautiful you were with your soft fair skin and chic hair, and how strangers often mistook you for our sister and not mother.

Sometimes, I ask Jojo whether he remembers his Nenek. He opens his eyes widely and nods his head seriously. I ask him where is Nenek right now, and he points up towards the heavens and tells me you are somewhere in the sky, looking down over all of us. I tell him when he misses his Nenek, all he has to do is look up towards the sky and say “I love you to the sky, Nenek,” like you use to tell all of us.

I love you to the sky, Mama.