JULY 15 — Late Monday night. Six months ago we were sitting in at the local kopitiam, while my mother was at the hospital morgue. That’s just how it is, a non-describable situation, when you’ve just lost the woman you’ve lived with most of your life. Especially the last ten which has just been the two of us in our home.
Now I seat alone in this house, and when I sleep, I will wake up to an empty address again.
It might be useful to tell now, that I am not depressed. It is a different thing when you are trying to find out what you are feeling when the experience has altered your sense of north in some ways and in other ways you are just the same, but not.
I still make coffee at night like these, I just don’t get them made by mom anymore.
And that is the recurring theme, about the thousand different things that I have done before and will do again, perhaps in the morning, but they won’t be done or experienced as such if I am not the orphan that I am today.
Friend said yesterday, between practising our Cork accent, that time makes things OK in time. He’s not the first to say something like that, there are many who have in their own way tried to help me. There’s something about loss that causes other people to feel they have to do something.
I want to end this post now, with a memory of mom. I love her routine to get ready for her temple commute. There is much preponderance from lunch time on whether she should be going out, whether it is the weather or the bus. At times it is her health. And around that 3pm things happen, if she decides to go.
An urgency of showering, dressing up — mom loved to dress up — and heading to the bus stop.
She’d talk about the conductors, the changing ticket prices, the advantage of one bus company over the other, the waiting time, the girls she meets in the bus and at the stops. The taxi drivers that inevitably get a story about her late husband who drove one just like them, but never cheated people.
These people, I wonder if they know mom is not around anymore, it has been half a year. Or have they just moved on, not bothered to realise that the woman who raised me is no more in their lives.
I realise, I realise it a lot. I’d take their quota if they don’t mind.
Let’s see where I am in another six months.