Grief

Mama,

I found my old butterfly hairclip you had gifted me on my eleventh birthday, and it took me back to the old days.

Papa used to count our blessings on prayer beads at 4am, while you slept the heavy sleep that comes with two 5 mg melatonin gummies. At 6 am, I would stand in front of your door and watch you doze. You snored a little, but none of us ever told you.

The fan was loud in the room, and a strand of your hair covered your face. At exactly 6.15 am you would rouse yourself from your deep sleep.

Sometimes, you would spot me and say something about how I hadn't braided my hair properly, with sleep still clinging to your eyes. You would immediately go to work on my unruly strands until two braids hung from my head to my twitchy, awkward shoulders. I confess, I loathed that hairstyle. I longed to straighten my dark curly hair and not worry about them being mistaken for a nest. I wished for locks just like you, effortlessly dark, pretty and straight.

Mama, I confess it took a long time for me to realize self-love was not synonymous with selfishness. I longed to put the foundation that only matched your fairer face to school and talk the way you did; to stress the 'ss' and the 't' in 'tooth', 'teacher' and 'sophisticated'. The vowels which you spoke so well pricked my throat when there were judging eyes on me.

At school, I had to learn to speak in a way that was pleasing; to not raise my thick brows too much and to contain my joy in the public school because loud girls were troublemakers. Contrary to the teachings, I became tall, gangly, loud and happy just the way you loved me. I took up more space and demanded respect. The respect I knew I deserved, strengthened as I was by the courage you lent me at home.

You had so much courage, I was sure I could borrow armfuls of it, and still leave you brimming with it.

When you would gently run your fingers over my eyelids and smile your dimpled smile and say: ''My beautiful, beautiful girl!'' I would breathe in easier, and my insecurities would run away like ants in front of stomping boots. I was made up of lovely, little pieces passed down by my strong ancestors who loved my crooked nose, and who would be proud of how far I've come.

I pretended to be like you, to talk like you because you were all the good in my little world. The perfect teacher and the perfect mother.

Now that I'm older, on the days when it's easier to be kind to myself, I drink a whopping 5 glasses of water. I lather my face with the new Korean moisturizer that is good for anti-aging skin. I water the plants in the early morning, before my father has a chance to ask me and I cook myself something healthy and delicious every day of the week. I smile goofily in the mirror and tell my turtle over and over again that I love him.

However, there are days when I sink into the bed and don't want to leave its safety even at 3pm. You would think I was horribly lazy. There are days when looking at myself is hard, and all the little blemishes conspire to assure me that I am the ugliest person in the world.

When I was young, I used to stare at the big houses with their neatly manicured lawns, shiny cars, and custom-made mailboxes as I rode the bus. I imagined what it would be like to call a place a home for years; To grow roots there, and to make friends who didn't butcher your name and who did not think you spoke weird or had weirder hair. I disliked how we moved so much. Every few months, we had to move to a new apartment. Now, I understand that money does not give one much choice and just like me you also wished to stay in a place for a long, long time.

Now as an adult, when I see a U-Haul laden with furniture and memories pass by my car it fills me with a mixture of sadness, loss and also hope because a new house or apartment is another beginning for a new family to find a new direction and the potential for love.

Mangoes grow only in hot, brooding summers when days are long and humid, you assured a five-year-old me. I cried not knowing much about the coming and goings of seasons, aching for summers to return and for the shorter days to stretch. I was adamant to keep the encroaching bedtime as far away from me as I can.

Until the sun set, me and Sufi could run in the backyard armed with wooden sticks, mouths full of drool and cackles. In here under your wise eyes, we felled castles, defeated hordes of orcs, conspired to solve the mysteries of the abandoned-looking house next to us and met Aslan, the king of Narnia, in the bushes by the road.

Sufi talked about all the places we would visit when we were grown up. We would make a lot of money, so you wouldn't have to work odd hours and nights. We thought the grownups had longer wings, and if they wished they could hop on a four-wheeler and drive to the end of the world. I did not know; some people deliberately clip their wings and that their lives are chock-full of worries the size of boulders.

At 13, I lived vicariously through books. Lucy could close her eyes and walk into a closet and have tea with Mr. Tumnus. Though I could rattle of all the spells I had read in Harry Potter and knew every spell better than a hardened witch, I never got the letter from Hogwarts.

The talk about money and lack of funds brought silence at the dinner table. Though you tried to shield me and my brother from it, we knew you worried about not being able to take care of us. I am here to tell you that you were enough.

Mother, sometimes I hated that you never told me that there was no spell in the world that could quiet a person's grief once you lost your loved one and no wand can transport you to the time where I could have tea with you again. I wish we could eat mangoes in the summer heat. I would give up every wonderland I've ever known to be with you again.

I remember that evening when you sat me down, adamant I understand where each ingredient in the kitchen goes. The drawers at the bottom were for glass plates, the one next to it for rice sacks, and the top ones were for drinking glasses. You taught me the right numbers to press on the washing machine, and the amount of detergent that goes in it; To put the like-colored clothes together and what products to use to scrub the sink with.

I was a little annoyed that you made me grill the corn in front of you, then fry the daal, and lentil soup until me and my brother had perfected the art of cooking it.

However, you never taught me the spell to stitch up a broken heart or to cast a silencio so Sufi won't hear me cry in the bathroom after you were gone. You did not teach me what to say when people asked me about you. I couldn't tell them; I did not believe you were never coming back. I expected you to open the front door with your arms ladened with groceries and yell at us to take our feet off the furniture.

Yes, there comes a time when parents must leave their children. I just wish I knew to stretch the time I had with you more, warp it until every second I spent with you felt like a lifetime. I wish I could have held you longer, tighter, knowing you would leave so soon. Now, every time I make daal, lentil soup and white rice tears are an extra ingredient. I cannot smell and taste spices without thinking of you and even though now there are newer recipes, I make them exactly the way you taught me, not a pinch of salt less and not a cup of brown rice more. This is my way of keeping you with me forever.