Remembering Not to Forget

Grief is an unusual feeling. Unusual in the sense that it is not a daily required emotion, nor one that must surface every day. Yet it is a sneaky little beast that creeps into your world and never truly leaves. It is one of those horrible, aghast moments of heat that cause a meltdown even when you are as solid as stone.

I lost my mom six months ago, and only now have I truly experienced grief. That might sound like triumph when I say I finally experienced something, but it is one of those forms of defeat you never recover from. It remains a defeat because you begin to remember.

In your remembering, you begin to forget.

You remember the times you pushed back a call to a loved one for a minute, an hour, days, months, or even years. You remember the time their thought crossed your mind, but you were angry because they had done something you thought was unforgettable. You remember the times they let you down, disappointed you, weren't there for you, opposed you, discouraged you, or made you feel small. You remember when their whining annoyed you, when they refused to toughen up, when they gave in to something you advised them against. You remember forgetting to tell them you loved them. You remember making them a second or even last choice. You remember believing they would always be here, saving your hugs and kisses for later.

You simply remember all the things you could have done right but did wrong, whether intentionally or unintentionally.

These memories make it difficult to forget your flaws, your failures, your slowness, your anger, your rejection, and every terrible thought or action you ever directed towards them. You keep remembering how you could have been there more, saved them, supported them, loved them until their last day, or simply thought about them more often while they were still alive. In fact, the moment you go too long without thinking about them, something inside immediately screams:

Betrayer.

Yet there are kinder days.

Days when you remember not to forget how much you loved them, supported them, cared for them, listened to them, stood by them, and showed your love through actions, expressions, and tireless service.

You remember how special you made them feel.

How reliable, trustworthy, honest, and supportive you were.

How much they relied on your strength, your kindness, your generosity, and your love.

You remember the feelings they awakened in you, the sweetness they generated, the light they sparked, the peace they provided, and the love they spread into every part of your being.

Those are the days that bring strength, hope, and faith that until their very last breath, they never doubted who you were to them or what they meant to you.

Yet even those memories carry their own pain.

You begin to wonder whether that love also became their fear.

Whether, in their final moments, they worried that losing them would forever scar you, alter who you are, change the way you see the world, or even break you completely.

Whether they questioned your ability to survive a loss they themselves could already see coming.

I wasn't there when my mother passed away.

That remains one of the most difficult parts of accepting this immeasurable loss.

Until the very last day, I repeated the same words to her:

"Keep the faith."

If I had known she would be gone forever, I would have travelled any distance simply to see her one more time.

To tease her, as I always did.

I remember painting a picture of the first international trip we would take together. I would tell her how I would travel all the way home just so I could travel with her, hold her hand throughout the journey, laugh at her expression during take-off, book the nicest hotel so she could feel like a queen, and then laugh again when she wrinkled her nose at unfamiliar food.

Oh, my mama would laugh.

She would laugh so hard.

Then she would look at me and say,

"You really are something else."

I would also tell her to keep building her strength because one day my triplets would need their grandmother.

"I plan to have three boys," I'd say.

She would laugh endlessly, asking if I truly knew what I was signing myself up for.

I'd confidently tell her that raising them would be entirely her responsibility.

Those little banters never solved the problems she was facing.

But somehow, they always lifted her spirit.

Thankfully, I told her over and over again that I loved her more than anything in this world.

I only wish I had been there one last time to tell her not to be afraid.

Because we carry her strength.

And it is sufficient for us.

Grief is, without a doubt, one of the most unbelievable feelings in the world. It arrives like unbridled thunder with the shock of lightning. But it doesn't stop there. It leaves you shaken and quietly turns your world upside down.

Although grief has taught me many things, perhaps the greatest is this.

Protect and savour the memories you create with the people you love.

Because one day, those memories may become the only place where their laughter still lives.