I have thought so many times about this over the past 248
days that I can’t understand what has
driven me to write it down. It’s unlikely that I’m going to forget this train
of thought because I’m so familiar with it.
My mother died leaving me as old as she was when she had me. She also died leaving me with her eyes, her feet, her voice, her laugh and the same sounds she made when she cried.
I wonder what she would have thought if she had known that by the time I was her age, she would be dead. That she would be one of the first among her friends to die. Or the fact that my grandfather will be 93 next year and his grief is something none of us can even begin to understand.
When she had me, it was a crazy day in Bangalore. My dad was away on a business trip. Our nieghbours drove her to the hospital in the middle of the night. So much drama, in a time without cellphones.
We moved cities a few years after. I clearly remember the time we flew to Delhi. It is probably my first distinct memory of a plane ride, but I’ll probably write about that on a different day.
Today I think about how I’m back in Bangalore all over again. Living in the house my mother had so many plans for but never got to stay in. She would have liked it here. Whenever I’m here, I sleep on her bed. The bed she died on. Sigh.
It’s a tug-of-war of emotions, thinking about what she would and wouldn’t have liked. It’s a careful balance between missing my mother and the equal number of times that I have appreciated that she’s finally free of the crazy trappings of human life.
My mother died leaving me as old as she was when she had me. She also died leaving me with her eyes, her feet, her voice, her laugh and the same sounds she made when she cried.
I wonder what she would have thought if she had known that by the time I was her age, she would be dead. That she would be one of the first among her friends to die. Or the fact that my grandfather will be 93 next year and his grief is something none of us can even begin to understand.
When she had me, it was a crazy day in Bangalore. My dad was away on a business trip. Our nieghbours drove her to the hospital in the middle of the night. So much drama, in a time without cellphones.
We moved cities a few years after. I clearly remember the time we flew to Delhi. It is probably my first distinct memory of a plane ride, but I’ll probably write about that on a different day.
Today I think about how I’m back in Bangalore all over again. Living in the house my mother had so many plans for but never got to stay in. She would have liked it here. Whenever I’m here, I sleep on her bed. The bed she died on. Sigh.
It’s a tug-of-war of emotions, thinking about what she would and wouldn’t have liked. It’s a careful balance between missing my mother and the equal number of times that I have appreciated that she’s finally free of the crazy trappings of human life.
And there are just so many things. Like the hangers I’ve
hung, which still have her clothes on them. The way she had them before she
died. I mean that literally. I simply took the hangers down from our cupboard
in Delhi and packed them without
removing a thing and now they hang here in our cupboard in Bangalore. Yes, our cupboard. My mother and I have been
sharing since 2011 and I think that’s going to continue.
Or the fact that I’m back in Bangalore after so many years, on my birthday, being the age that my mother was when I was born. We’re living in the house she hoped to watch me grow up in and we have moved the same year that she died.
And on my birthday I think what this day would have been like for my mother so many years ago, the day I was born. I think about all the emotions she would be feeling on this day. And then I think about today and now. And I feel thankful for words like bereavement. An overarching term that I have been liberally using for pretty much every uncategorized, deeply traumatic, deeply chaotic and yes, deeply tranquil emotion I have experienced since she died.
Because really, how do I hope to explain my thoughts otherwise?
Or the fact that I’m back in Bangalore after so many years, on my birthday, being the age that my mother was when I was born. We’re living in the house she hoped to watch me grow up in and we have moved the same year that she died.
And on my birthday I think what this day would have been like for my mother so many years ago, the day I was born. I think about all the emotions she would be feeling on this day. And then I think about today and now. And I feel thankful for words like bereavement. An overarching term that I have been liberally using for pretty much every uncategorized, deeply traumatic, deeply chaotic and yes, deeply tranquil emotion I have experienced since she died.
Because really, how do I hope to explain my thoughts otherwise?
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