25 Months On: The Reminders Are Everywhere

Mum, your presence is still felt in every corner of our home

in every room, every empty chair, every object

every routine, every tradition, and every familiar sound

Ma, it has been 25 hellish months since you unexpectedly left us, as time slips by, it is just impossible to escape the reminders of you, every corner of our home holds little fragments of you, every day, I am confronted with this cruel reality of your sudden absence, the damn  reminders are everywhere, small, ordinary things that reinforce, again and again, the damn aching truth of your excruciating loss, a truth that is so hard to face even now, it is as if the world is scattered with tiny, yet powerful echoes of a life that was so beautifully intertwined with mine, silently telling the story of your extraordinary life, constantly reminding of a love that was once so present, so tangible, and now feels so awfully out of reach

Ma, 25 horrid months on, your absence has been most palpable in those empty chairs you left behind, ones you always claimed, sit unoccupied, the dining table feels so much bigger now, and yet emptier at the same time, your chair, where you had always sit, is vacant, but never out of sight, as my eyes are drawn there instinctively, half expecting to see you, and ready to share a story, to laugh at a joke, to ask how my day was, that spot was where you nurtured, chatted, and shared moments that made us feel like a family, because you made mealtime an event, a moment to connect, but all that is left is deafening silence, and every damn meal feels incomplete without you, that bloody chair speaks volumes

Ma, then there is the chair, an eerie stillness, in front of your desk, and your computer sits frozen in time, the desk remains untouched, your papers neatly stacked, as if you had just stepped away for a minute, as if it is waiting for you to return at any moment, and continue to watch your favourite program, it is so intolerable to believe you will never sit in that chair again, as I remember you so clearly, spending hours there, focused and content, now, that space feels so abandoned, and it was your little corner of the world, a mundane space that belonged only to you, where you had so much fun has become a place I can hardly bear to look at, every time I walk pass it, I feel a rush of memories and a sharp pain

Ma, there is your settee in the living room, the one that was always yours, where you used to curl up in your seat to support our football team Chelsea, to watch TV shows like Strictly Come Dancing with us, but in your absence, the room does not feel the same without your vibrant presence, without the sound of your voice commenting, 25 odious months on, I still look over, envisaging to see you sitting there, dispiritingly, it is just your empty seat, staring back at me, telling me that you are there to fill it no more, how can something as simple as an empty chair carry so much weight? The chair, once just a piece of furniture, but to me, it represents so much more, and it has become a symbol of all that is missing

Ma, it is strange how something so little, can attach so much meaning and memories, your cup is still sitting in the cupboard, unused, gathering dust, a silent witness to your absence, a muted tribute to you, an emblem of the everyday rituals we no longer share, I sometimes tempt to reach for it, to feel closer to you, and willing myself to see you holding it, wrapping your hands around it in the mornings, your cheerful smile warming the room as you sipped your hot water, but I always pull back, somehow, it feels wrong, as if it still carries a part of you within its delicate porcelain, as if it would break the connection that still lingers in it, so, that cup remains, an unyielding reminder of all the things we never get back

Ma, grief has a way of turning normal things into triggers in the past 25 woeful months, the familiar sounds that once felt comforting now bring an unpredicted wave of sadness, I hear a door opening, the soft shuffle of feet, or the kettle boiling, and for a split second, I think it is you, but the sound fades, and I am left with the acute realisation, that will never be yours again, scents, too, have a way of bringing you back to me, as your scent still lingers in the air, on your clothes, tucked away in the closet, I often catch a whiff of it, I breathe it in, and try to capture even a tiny piece of you, however, these sensory memories are both alluring and heartbreaking, that highlight how deeply you were part of our daily lives

Ma, the evenings are the longest and loneliest, when the day is done, the world falls quiet, your absence is not possible to ignore, there is a hollowness in the house, as though lights are switched off, as though it holds its breath, waiting for you to walk through the door, and fill it with life again, I find myself straining to hear even the faintest echo of you, each scent, each sound, or each reminder, is a mini wound never fully heals, every room, every object, and every routine brings the ache of your loss like a jolt to my heart and bones, but I would not want it any other way, these reminders are proof that you lived, that you mattered, and pulling me back to you, with every breath, every glance, every dull moment