A Lost Traveller: 40 Months on the Road Without My Darling Mum

A Lost Traveller: 40 Months on the Road

Without My Darling Mum

Mum, a whole world of sunrises and seasons that your never got to see

and yet, you have been the invisible companion walking beside me

both an ache and a presence, a wound and a guiding light

Ma, 40 months, 40 months of waking up in a world that still spins, still buzzes, still asks the questions, and offers the same busy noise, while mine has never been the same, sometimes I still cannot believe I am writing those words as my own damn truth, I have spent these 40 months as a traveller who never meant to set out alone, stumbling down a road I never asked to walk, the relentless, uncharted terrain of life without you, as I did not pack for this journey, I did not study any map, because, there is no map for this, I was thrust onto this painful path the day you unexpectedly departed from this earth, and for 40 months, I have been irrevocably, profoundly lost, roaming through landscapes I did not recognise, learning to survive in a world that no longer has you the remarkable lady, whose love shaped the very foundation of who I am

 

Ma, for 40 months, I have been a traveller in a country where I do not speak the language, the borders were crossed, with no return ticket issued, in a single, catastrophic moment, a phone call, a silence, so deafening it became the new atmosphere, the passport stamp was a shock so damn vast it felt like a physical rearrangement of my cells, the landscape is perpetual foreignness, where the sound of your voice, the rhythm of your advice, and the comfort of your presence, were abruptly erased, ever since that day, I have been lost, not the romantic kind of lost, where I could wander picturesque alleys, this is the kind of lost, where the sun has been a constant, dull grey, the landmarks are all memories, that twist into mirages, the compass needle spins uselessly, because you, my north star for so long, is the horizon I can no longer reach

 

Ma, people call it a grief journey, the term feels both accurate and entirely inadequate, since a journey implies a destination, perhaps even a guidebook, or signs pointing the way forward, but there is none, as my experience of the past 40 months, has felt nothing like that, there is only the travelling itself, the arduous, disorienting, and deeply solitary act of moving through time without you, I used to think grief would be like a storm, violent at first, devastating, but eventually passes, leaving clear skies, the calm air and breathable again, instead, the damn rain has not stopped, I have just absorbed to recognise its patterns, some days are a soft, constant drizzle of sadness, others bring sudden, squalling gusts that knock me off my feet, I have stopped waiting for it to be over, whereas I am learning how to build a life within the climate of your absence

 

Ma, the early days, were not a journey but a cataclysm, that defined by a geography of disbelief, grief was a ceaseless, screaming weather system, I was not so much travelling as being thrown, battered against the sharp rocks, I was a raw, exposed nerve wandering a hostile land, the unbearable weight in my chest was a permanent piece of luggage, so heavy I wondered how my spine did not buckle, and a literal ache I now know was my heart breaking in the most clinical sense, so acute I could not imagine surviving the hour, I moved, but I was not navigating, I was caught in the undertow, tumbling in a void, where sound was muffled and light was dim, I operated on an instinctual, survivalist level, breathe in, breathe out, put one foot in front of the other, and that lost part of me then was absolute, I had been untethered from my primary orbit 

 

Ma, as the months crawled, and that was when the true feeling of being a traveller set in, the intense pain weathered into a more persistent weight, a gaping, aching absence became part of my skeletal structure, this is the harsh reality of long term grief, the earthquake subsides, but the ground itself is forever altered, I moved through a world that looked familiar, the same streets, the same routines, the same seasons, but everything was rendered alien, your loss is no longer a wave crashing over me, but the sea I am now swimming in, agonisingly, I began to learn the dialect of this new country, a language not of words, but of sensations, when a life milestone happens and your applause is the silence I hear instead, of the nostalgic flavour of a memory that brings a smile, and immediately, a ripple of yearning so turbulent it steals my breath

 

Ma, my grief has looped, collapsed in on itself, and erupted in unpredicted geysers of tears, as I keep thinking, how am I meant to do the rest of my life without you? Not just the future you were supposed to share, but those everyday moments that made up the fabric of our closeness, the casual chats, the comfort of knowing you existed somewhere in the world at the same time as me, yet, even in this stark wilderness, the landscape has been haunted by your presence in a thousand intangible ways, now, at 40 month, the crater has not filled in, it never will, but life, has begun to grow around its edges, moss on the rock, wildflowers in the cracks, this is the most confusing phase of all for me, the lost traveller, since joy and sorrow begin to coexist, I can laugh until my sides hurt at a memory of you, the laughter will turn, mid-breath, into a sob

 

Ma, 40 months in, I have becoming both wanderer and witness, and I have seen myself losing pieces I thought were permanent, and gaining things I never wanted, but I have also discovered things I did not know I could carry, endurance, a fierce determination to keep your story stitched into everything I do, I am no longer the same person I was when this journey began, I am still a traveller lost in a wilderness of pain, I suspect I always will be, but I am starting to recognise some of the scenery, the map, I finally understand, is something I draw myself, with tears as ink, memories as landmarks, the destination, is how to honestly and courageously carry your loss, because even as a lost traveller, I am still walking a road paved with your love, that remains the one true north on my compass, I am still mastering how to be your daughter in your absence