My lunch box, a simple, insulated container of plastic

it sits in our kitchen, clean and dormant, that I hardly

noticed how deeply it is woven into my world until

one day, it fell silent, when my darling Mum was taken

from us unexpectedly, and now, it is a museum of love

a relic from a life that feels like a beautiful movie

it is one of the quietest, most deafening thing I own

She woke up early every morning just to make lunch

for me, without fail, without complaint, without ever

treating it as a burden, for years, that sound of her

cooking became my alarm clock, my first comfort

even half-asleep, I knew she was there, I knew when

I opened my lunch box, it would be warm with her love

seasoned with her devotion, infused with her presence

Then one day, she was gone, suddenly, without warning

the world did not just stop, its sound was ripped away

and that familiar music of my life had ended mid-song

my lunchbox sat empty, I cannot bring myself to open it

let alone use it, so it remains still, waiting in a way that

breaks me a little more every time I see it, just like the

part of my heart that still reaches for her every day

My lunchbox is the starkest evidence of her absence

it symbolises her love I once took for granted and now

ache for with every part of me, but it also reminds me

the sacrifice, the dedication, and the lady who believed

that a freshly cooked meal was the purest expression

of her heart, I inherited a lunch box filled with a lifetime

of love, and that, in its own painful way, is priceless