Dec 12th 2022, it was the last time you've messaged me that it was time for lunch while I was working from my room Ma, and now I only have that screenshot to remind me that you would never want me to ever go hungry.
Since then, you'd just lay down and sleep the whole day, the few times you'd be awake you'd just give out a sweet smile. We'd tell you a few jokes, you'd still smile but it was as if you were lucid from your meds.
Little did we realize that your organs were shutting down, it was your body going through the process of letting go. After more than a decade since you've had your first stroke, your smile amidst your silence was telling us it was your time to go.
The last time I could remember us having a conversation was a few days after New Years as I've handed you your monthly allowance, you said thank you with the most genuine smile as you struggled to look for your purse and set the money aside.
We may have had other conversations after that, but I'd like to keep that etched into my core memory as the last meaningful interaction we've had. This season would be especially difficult knowing you're not here.
It's been almost a year since you've passed, and there's not a moment that when I step out of my room that I do not yearn to see you on your usual spot. I've been mostly stuck in my room since, even missed out on meeting friends, and I know you wouldn't want that. I'll try next year.
I've read articles and seen videos on the internet about one's natural response to the process of withering away, the peaceful process of dying, and somehow it gives me peace that you didn't have to suffer as much, and that you were around people you dearly loved.
It's Dec 12, 2023 Mama. I've taken my lunch and dinner.
I love you and I miss you.