140 Weeks of Ache:

A Love That Time Cannot Soften  

Even in the ache, I am so deeply grateful that I had you

a mother so extraordinary, so loving, so present

that your absence could hurt this much

Ma, it has been 140 weeks since that fatal, lightning-strike moment, that everything familiar shattered in the most unexpected, most devastating way, your passing was so sudden, the kind that left me breathless, one moment you were here, full of life, of laughter, of love, and the next, gone, just like that, one ordinary Tuesday turned into a horrendous day, that tears my entire life in two, without warning, without time to prepare, without an opportunity to say goodbye, only a before and an after, and so I ache, not just today, but every single day, for 140 weeks, I have been carrying this agonising pain, and for 140 weeks, I have been living with this unimaginable ache 

Ma, 140 weeks is a very long time, long enough for seasons to change over and over, long enough for the world to move forward mercilessly, while I am still feeling frozen in that one cruel moment, that exact second my life changed irrevocably, replaying it, again and again, trying to understand what simply cannot be understood, long enough for people to assume I have healed, but grief certainly does not follow calendars, long enough for your indefinite absence to hurt my heart, my body, my soul, my full sense of being, long enough for me to feel unnatural to keep breathing, while yours stopped, long enough for me to say the word “Ma”, only to the gloomy air

Ma, 140 weeks ago, the ache was shock, deafening, and the world became a blur, as I did not know where to go, who to be, or how to function, I was suspended in utter disbelief and I was paralysed in the instant, and then, this ache became ritual, I lighted candles, I looked at your photos, I sat in your pretty garden long after nightfall, yet, I could barely speak your name without breaking down, as the time went by, slowly but surely, the ache matured and it stopped roaring and started whispering, as I could walk through a day without crying, but there has always been a long, dark shadow, a subtle hollowness, and an excruciating ache that demanded to be heard 

Ma, the weeks stack like bricks, heavy, unmoving, pressing down on me with the weight of everything you left behind and everything you were, 140 weeks passed, yes, but the ache? it has not go away, it has not dulled, but, it has only deepened, like roots growing around a stone, it has just reshaped itself, this is not the screaming pain of those early days, but it is something quieter now, more insidious, a constant throb of a body, learning to pump blood around the gaping hole where you used to be, however, sometimes, it is a sharp stab, that catches me mid-step, slicing through the calm of a normal day, yet it is always there, and it is firmly settled in my bones

Ma, for 140 weeks, I have woken up to the same harsh reality of you are here no more, as grief has taught me things I never wanted to learn, how to live with this grievous truth while everything inside me wanted to wail against it, how to show up when I am crushed, how to find meaning in a world that no longer includes you, how to honour you, who can no longer speak for yourself, how to keep breathing, even when it hurts, because in these 140 weeks I have aged in ways no one can see, your loss does that, and it sculpts me, I am now more tender, more fragile, more fierce, more aware, more empathetic to others’ pain since I have seen the depths of my own 

Ma, people mark time in seasons, birthdays, or holidays, but I mark mine in the absence of you, and in the ache, as I ache for your presence, for your smile that could soften any hard day, I ache for the way you just knew when we were sad, for the way you loved us, quietly, endlessly, I ache at milestones, quiet Tuesdays, loud Fridays, I ache for all the things, that you have missed, for all the moments that should have been, I ache when I see mums and daughters together, unaware of the miracle in their hands, I ache when the sky looks like a painting or a flower blooms just right, because you saw beauty in everything and I now see you, in everything beautiful

Ma, days pile into weeks, each one a fresh insult, and before I know it, I am standing in the rubble of 140 weeks of longing, of aching, but I have survived, I do not count these weeks, as a measure of time, but as 140 weeks of refusing to let you disappearing into silence, as this relentless hurt is the last frontier, where I still love you in present tense, where you are not past, where you are in the pulse of my sorrow, the salt of my tears, the way I still talk to you out of muscle memory, this ache exists because love did, a love so deep, so pure, and so unconditional, that left a crater, I will never trade love just to avoid the pain, as your love is worth a lifetime of aching