Unsent Letters

November 19, 2023

Mother, 

Oh, how I miss you, Mother! Each passing day since you left has created a void too deep to ever be filled. I have been consumed by pangs of loneliness and, even more so, by regret. Every night, I try to relive the moments we shared when I was younger. I realize now how inattentive I was during those times—daydreaming, not particularly fond of your presence. I took you for granted—your love, your presence, and your company.

I remember our last encounter. I stopped by our hometown for a short visit, but for some reason, I knew it would be the last time I would see you. You were sitting in your favorite chair, chamomile tea in hand, gazing out the window as you told me to stay a little longer and wait for Father to arrive. You still looked healthy then, as you always had. But somehow, deep down, I knew it would be the last time I would see you alive. And yet, I dismissed the thought, afraid that acknowledging it might make it come true.

I didn’t wait for Father, I left as quickly as I could. How I wish I had spoken to you about more than just trivial, tedious things. How I wish I had hugged you. But you know, we are a family of non-huggers. The only time you ever hugged me was when you temporarily left Father and said goodbye to me when I was twelve. We dreaded the notion of touching—let alone embracing.

How I wish I had held you tightly or even just touched your hand, cherishing every second of that moment. How I wish I could turn back time. I would pay any price for that chance.

Forever longing for you,

Aurora

November 12, 2023

Mother,

Did you know what I feared the most, Mother? I feared that one day, I would wake up to a phone call or a message telling me that you had died. I was terrified of reading that you were gone while I was asleep—or that you had passed while you were asleep. But that’s not what happened. Funnily enough, I watched you die through the phone.

You didn’t even close your eyes; you were looking but not really seeing. The howl of grief I let out came not just from my heart but from the depths of my being. I keep telling myself—if only I could turn back time for just five more minutes. Five more minutes. You were alive five minutes ago. I wanted to stop time, just for a moment. Please, just one moment with you.

But time kept ticking, and with each passing second, I moved further away from those last five minutes when you were still here. How can this be? You were just smiling five minutes ago.

I didn’t know it would hurt this much. And do you know what hurts even more, Mother? I wasn’t there beside you when you took your last breath. I was on the phone, thousands of miles away—powerless to be by your side.

Forever longing for you,

Aurora

December 21, 2023

Mother,

This morning, I woke up to the most glorious day, with the sun gleaming as brilliantly as it once did on our little farm. Golden rays gently spilled through my window, filling my room with a warm, vibrant glow. I could see the colorful roofs of my neighbors’ houses, all basking in the sunlight. This beautiful sight made me realize something, Mother: the same sun that shone on us at the farm is the very one that graces me here.

When I was younger, I believed that being in a foreign land would bring a completely different experience—the sun’s rays, the scent of the air, and the touch of the wind would all be unfamiliar. Yet, they feel just as they did back home. They serve as gentle reminders of you, Mother.

But why is it that, even though the sun feels familiar, it is not as warm as I remember when I was with you? And why does it make me lonely? Why does it make me dream of days long past? Why does it crush my heart and bleed my soul? Why can the sun awaken my longing for you but not bring me back to you?

It feels like ten o’clock again. Do you recall, Mother? Every morning, I would sit in the bamboo chair on the veranda that Father built for me. The bamboo felt refreshingly cool against my skin, a contrast to the hot herbal tea in my hands. You would be in the kitchen, already preparing lunch, filling the air with the delightful aroma of garlic and onions as you sautéed them. You always smelled of garlic and onions, Mother—a delicious, familiar scent.

Great Uncle Peter, who lived nearby, would settle beneath the mango tree just outside the veranda. Every day, he would come, clutching his radio and his basket of horseradish, and we would lose ourselves in the enchanting allure of radio dramas, sharing moments of pure joy. He would tend to his horseradish while I, at times, drifted away into daydreams of a grand life in a bustling city.

Poor Great Uncle Peter. It has been four long years since he was taken from us. And if that weren’t enough, his wife, too, succumbed to death’s embrace just a year later. I can still see them in my dreams, Mother. Oh! How I miss the old times, when life was simpler and brighter. Should we visit the hacienda now, we would find unfamiliar faces, for the friendly smiles of old have already departed from this world.

Those moments are sweet reminders of what once was, fragments of a time filled with happiness, now tinged with sadness and longing. Those were the days when you were still here with me. Most days were filled with mundane routines, predictability, and dullness. Yet, when the summer sun rises, those are the memories I find myself returning to.

Forever longing for you,

Aurora

December 31, 2023

Last night, I dreamed of you again, Mother—your lingering presence haunting my sleep. It was a dream steeped in remorse, leaving me awake for hours, drowning in sorrow.

You have been visiting me in my sleep almost every night, and the theme is always the same—you, sick and dying. But last night, my dream was different. It was filled not just with grief but with guilt and regret, shaking me to my core.

Do you remember, dear Mother, the time when illness overcame you and I was in a distant place, unable to provide the care you needed? In my slumber, I was given a chance to care for you, yet even then, I faltered and failed to fulfill my duty.

In my dream, the air was thick with the anticipation of the new year, and the city streets teemed with festivity. Our family was torn between celebrating indoors or venturing out into the bustling cityscape. However, a dilemma arose — you were unwell, suffering from the illness that rendered you frail and vulnerable. A loud debate ensued as we contemplated who would remain by your side. The neighbor, who had offered her assistance, was conspicuously absent, leaving us uncertain and anxious.

I reached out for you, my hand brushing gently against yours as I called your name. Your fingers were long and gaunt, the veins stark against your fragile skin. I was careful, afraid of causing you pain.

To my dismay, your gaze met mine, laced with a disdain that pierced my soul. Ashamed, I turned away, realizing that even in dreams, I could not summon the strength to care for you as I should have. The weight of guilt consumed me. In both life and memory, I had chosen myself over you.

Forgive me, Mother, for not being there when you needed me most. For every chance I had to care for you but did not. My guilt is my punishment. If you must haunt my dreams, then let it be so. I will remain trapped in this endless cycle of guilt, regret, and longing.

Aurora.