The Fourth Chinese New Year Without Mum: Notes From a Changed World

The Fourth Chinese New Year Without Mum:

Notes From a Changed World

Each Chinese New Year, the red returns, the language of luck, hope and

fresh starts fills the air, but I stand holding both the beauty of the tradition

and the ache of loss, wondering how they are meant to coexist

Mum, Happy Chinese New Year!

Ma, this is the fourth Chinese New Year without you, the fourth time the red paper is cut without your hands to guide the scissors, the fourth time the kitchen fills with the scent of dumplings, but not with the sound of your infectious laughter, the fourth time I perform the rituals, with a heart that feels both too heavy and strangely empty, the fourth time the calendar turns to the new animal Horse of the year, time has continued, faithfully, indifferently, while my internal calendar remains stubbornly stuck in the year of your sudden absence, as I no longer expect the New Year to feel hopeful in the way it once did, I do not ask it to deliver joy, or optimism, or beginnings that feel clean, instead, I allow it to hold what is so damn true - love that continues, grief that knows the almanac as well as I do, and a life that moves forward without resolution

 

Ma, without you, New Year arrives stripped of its centre, as there is no shock left in the number, only a sober recognition that you have remained where you are, vividly present in memory and utterly absent in form, your voice still accompanies me at this time of year, quiet instructions, gentle reminders, and familiar rhythms, in this way, you are not gone from the New Year at all, but in my remembering, in the ache that turns up predictably, right on schedule, yet, this festival was never just a date in our family, you taught us that it was atmosphere and intention, it lived in the small, repeated acts you carried so naturally, preparing, organising, caring, holding everything together, through your love, traditions were not obligations, but as living threads that bound generations together, culture became comfort, ritual became home we inhabited

 

Ma, the first Chinese New Year without you, was unthinkable, I moved through it in shock, stunned by how your absence, so new, so surreal, so violently raw, announced itself, the noise of firecrackers felt like an assault, every familiar ritual, was observed out of a determined act of duty, I survived it, that is the only goal, the second was undeniable, it came with an acute, painful awareness that, this was not a temporary disruption, but now it is the shape of things, the kitchen was too damn quiet, without the clatter of your knives against the chopping board, the sizzle of your spring onions hitting hot oil, as the dumpling dough never possessing the perfect pliability of yours, and I was furious at the celebrations around me, at the universe, at the empty chair, I was grieving not just you, but the festival itself, which seemed irretrievably broken

 

Ma, the third year was a deep sadness, a year of bewildered navigation, as the sharp edges of my pain have worn down to a constant ache, I learned the new rhythms and the altered choreography, I tried to merge the old and the new, to curate a version of the New Year that accept the cavernous hole, while not being consumed by it, I made dumplings, and I played the New Year’s Eve gala, my grief was less a wave and more a tide, always there, washing over the festivities in a soft, grey veil, and now, the fourth, this year is something else entirely, as it is not the raw shock, the fiery irritability, or the weighty tide of sorrow, but it is something more complex, more settled, and in its own way, more lonely, and there is a particular ache in repetition without you the person who gave it meaning and gravity, the one who held the knowledge of how and why

 

Ma, this year, I am not just grieving your absence from the traditions, but the absence of the traditions themselves, because they are living conversations between generations, without you to lead that call, my response falters, without your corrections, those hauntingly familiar rituals start to morph, and the routines are now mine to execute, for better or worse, though, there is a competence to it, a efficiency that would have made you nod in approval, this proficiency is a double-edged sword, it means the gap between how things were and how they are, is no longer a chaotic chasm, but a clean, measured, and perpetual line drawn through my life, and this is also the year of the stories that are starting to slip, the private, silly family lore, the specific, illogical order you would clean the house before New Year, these tales are now mine alone to hold

 

Ma, the fourth year is also, strikingly, the year of your subtle, integrated return, you are no longer just in the empty chair, but you are in the way we instinctively turn the fish head faces the elder at the table, a respect you drilled into us, in the stubborn insistence on washing everything beforehand, and the altar is still set, the fruits are stacked in a pyramid, your favourite sweets are laid out, I light incense, I pause long enough to feel the ache rather than outrun it, I remember you who made belonging feel effortless, who carried the family without announcement, who understood that tradition is not about perfection, but about presence, as the ritual has softened from a desperate plea for your presence, to an ongoing conversation with it, I report, I tell you about my year, I complain about the weather, I whisper a small triumph at work, I confess a worry

 

Ma, in this fourth New Year without you, a faint, stubborn green shoot has pushed through the frozen ground of my grief, it is the realisation that the love was not just in the rituals, but in the doing, so this year, I will not try to perfectly replicate your festival, I will not wait for the joy to return where it does not naturally land, instead, I will look at the moon, the same one that will shine over the reunion dinners of millions, I will miss you with an ache that is as familiar now as my own breath, I will allow the day to be what it is - memory alongside sadness, gratitude beside longing, I am grateful that I had a Mum, who is the bridge between past and present, and I am grateful for the sacrifices you made, the resilience you embodied, the way you held the family together through effort that often went unseen, since your love endures beyond your lifetime

 

Ma, four Chinese New Year on, I am still learning to carry you, imperfectly but sincerely, to recognise a forward motion that always carries a backward glance, and to accept that grief and celebration can sit beside each other at the same table without apology, as you taught me this festival is about honouring the past, celebrating the present, and hoping for the future, my present is marked by your absence, my future will always be shaped by it, but because of you, this is also about continuity, lineage, the solace that what came before still matters, so, I step into this Spring Festival with the understanding that your love is the tradition, my missing you is the altar, and life, precious and persistent, is the offering, hence I bow to your memory, I raise my glass towards the first star I see, and I whisper, Ma, Happy New Year, and that, too, is a form of devotion