One word almost everyone fears—
a word we hesitate to speak,
afraid
to even utter,
to even think of.
The worst nightmare,
affecting the next day,
or maybe even
haunting you for a lifetime.

Even the strongest would
run away from facing it,
because no one has the heart
to easily overcome
the loss,
to easily watch
their loved ones suffer,
to easily bear
their pain.

The very thought
of losing your loved one
pushes you
into darkness,
with no one around,
just you
screaming
your heart out,
yet no one is there
to answer you,
console you,
or be there for you.

I saw a 60-year-old patti,
tears welling in her eyes,
each one speaking
of a heart shattered by the loss
of her 96-year-old mother,
and it left me with a realization:

Despite age,
despite detachment,
despite conflicts,
in the end, love wins.
That's what it yearns for.

Amma amma tha..

Her mother was 96 years old
in my eyes,
but for her,
she was
the one who
raised her,
not as one among seven,
but as her only one.

She who,
running behind her,
played along with her,
yet patiently fed her
with gentle hands,
with every bite
silently promising
that her little girl
would never
go hungry.

She who
literally shed
sweat, worked hard,
turning her struggles
into her children's opportunities.

She who,
with a heavy heart
yet a graceful smile,
blessed her daughter
and sent her off
into her new family.

She who
stood up for her,
gave her a voice
when she was
voiceless
from day one.

"Ma... Ma... Ma..."

Occupied
all phases of her life.

And in return,
her daughter
gave her all of herself
to be there
for her mother.

She took care of her
when she became a child again.

Those tired legs,
which once ran for miles,
trembled now.

But more than a stick
could ever support her,
her daughter walked beside her,
showing the world
that when those eyes
could barely see,
her very own child
became her vision.

Was it a debt?
Extra work?
A burden?
To care,
to spend time
with the very parents
who worked beyond their limits,
took extra shifts,
prioritizing
their children's tiny joys
over
their dreams,
which were bigger than the sky.

Who cried
through sleepless nights
when their child
caught a fever,
trapped in guilt
and others' prejudices.

Yet every day,
every moment,
they chose
their children.

For her,
the least she could do
was be there for her,
talk to her,
reminisce about the past,
making her mother forget the present,
where there was a possibility
of forgetting her own daughter.

Yet she chose
to distract her
with the sweetness of the past
rather than the bitterness
and suffering of the present.

And till the very last moment,
holding her hand,
offering silent comfort,
and surrounding her with love,
the very last sight
was the face of the daughter
she had loved all her life.

This moment—
though it has been weeks
since her mother's departure—
her eyes
fought back tears,
refusing to let them fall.

Still,
her shaky breath
told
their tale of love,
their very life.

Though physically absent,
her presence,
her memories,
are
endless,
eternal,
untouched by time
or distance.

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