Broken Heart and Misplaced Love
My heart has been broken many times over, by many people. But no one quite broke my heart like the day it broke when my mother took her last breath.
I struggled to find the right words. I do not think I will ever be able to find the right words to tell you of every emotion that flitted through my mind since she was first declared terminally ill. I know that some who have lost their parents understand me better than others, and there is comfort and sadness in that.
This little piece, a eulogy of sorts, is more for my broken heart more than a celebration of my mother. You see, I always celebrated her in all I did, when she was alive. My sister did too, and we continue to do that day in and day out, by living our lives and conducting ourselves in ways that would have made her proud.
I celebrate her through the works of my hands. I cook, I paint, I even have beautiful handwriting because she made me so. My mother gets every single bit of credit for moulding me into this person.
But lord, it’s so hard. I cannot look at photos of her. It’s too hard. I can’t think about her, because it hurts and hurts and it stops me from functioning. I pick up my phone to call her and I realise I can’t. So I call my father and speak to him, and I wonder if he’s okay.
I know in the heart of hearts that none of us are. But I am my mother’s daughter and she did not wallow for too long. So I tell myself that I won’t either.
It is sad and yet a fact of life that I will never be loved by someone as much as she loved me. I know the people around me love me, but they didn’t carry me within them, or hold me close when I was worried, or kiss my hands and tell me that they are beautiful and that I could own the world if I committed to using them for doing what I love to do. But through all that, I remember that I was loved and loved endlessly by her. I remember that I know selflessness, loyalty, unending love and strength because of her. I am so very blessed, for some children never receive that. I am lucky that I got twenty four wonderful years with her, and while I wish for more with her, I am grateful for what I got.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel tears coming on strong and fast when I saw a young mother kissing and cuddling her beautiful little toddler in the city today. I’d be lying if I say that my heart didn’t swell up with sadness when I remembered Ammi kissing me and holding me like so, many years ago.
My mother, being a Buddhist, believed in karma. She believed that all good and bad come back to us many fold. She believed that we are accountable for the love and hate we put out into this universe.
I hope and I find comfort hoping that someday, when I hold my own little daughter close and show her pictures of the strongest woman I ever knew, that some of the love that my mother so unconditionally gave to me will fill my heart once more and flow into the heart of my child. I hope, that some day, that the love my mother passed to me will come full circle and continue flow, and that even though my heart will always have a break it in, at least the gaps would be filled with a bit of love.
Until, in this journey through samsāra, I meet her again.
“Now that she’s back in the atmosphere, with drops of Jupiter in her hair”