To Amira From Your Mother

Their tears grew quieter as the hours went by and her body got comfortable in its new home. The atmosphere was becoming wearier as the silence slowly started suffocating the darkness. The light did the best it could, outlining the worn-out boxes and random shapes while particles of dust swarmed around.

Downstairs everyone was sharing their favourite memories of her while I knew nothing about the woman they mourned. The boxes seemed to grow with disappointment as I failed to find a glimpse of a memory. Their laughter echoed through the floors while I was still unable to mourn the unfamiliar soul. The longer this took, the dryer my eyes felt while my hands became numb to the cobwebs growing on my fingers.

They told me it was okay not to remember through their watering eyes. But I needed to remember who she was. Who my mother was.

Sometimes I blamed myself for being the reason for my mother’s departure, the reason she left behind her family and the people she loved. Everyone in the family, including my older siblings, always told stories of what life was like when she was around. It seemed as though everything was perfect, with everybody being happy. Their stories only made me feel guilty that I was the reason their life was no longer the same.

The light was no longer helpful as I stared at the hidden drawer facing the rusty window in the far corner. My name scribbled all over. There was a deafening silence as the drawers revealed random trinkets on top of numerous letters.

“To my dearest Amira, from your loving mother.”

Beside all her letters was an oval-shaped golden necklace with my name on it. Inside was a picture of my mother in the hospital and me as a baby in her arms.

My mother remembered me.

She loved me.

The wooden floors quickly became damp as soft sniffles battled out the fading silence and calligraphy letters scattered in the moisture. The locket dangled around my neck as the warmth of hands comforted my cries.