You Are Not Alone

I take in a deep breath and sigh, feeling every inch of my body relax as the smell of butter and chocolate chips washes over me. The smell of my mother.

Just a couple months ago, I would walk into our kitchen and wrinkle my nose at this wonderful smell.

“Cookies? Again? Ma, how many times do I tell you that I’m trying to lose weight?”

And she would stop whatever she was doing and face me with an apron that says Whatever happens, we’re eating it, splattered with mystery stains.

“If you lose any more, I’ll have to prop you up with sticks. That’s how skinny you’ve become.”

Now all I have left of her are these memories. The memory of her smile, and her beautiful eyes, brown like coffee. The memory of her funeral.

“Maria was a daughter, a wife, and a mother. She was a beacon of light, and she will always be remembered by those who love her.”

When the ceremony finally ended, I remember arms wrapping around me, arms of my father, my grandmother, my brother. And they all cried for my mother and grieved, carrying her photo around for the weeks that followed. Looking at it before they went to bed, taking comfort in their memories of her. 

But to see her, to feel her, the sight of her face is never enough.

I close my eyes, so I can almost convince myself that her hand is on my shoulder, that I’m wrapped in her embrace. Or I’m lying on her lap, falling asleep to the sound of her voice, low and warm. She’s there for me, as she always has been, and I am not alone. 

“You’re never alone,” she says, used to say, and I would believe her.

But I can’t believe it anymore, because for months now, I have opened my eyes to an empty kitchen, silent without her. An empty house, where no one grieves for her the way I do, seemingly vacant but withering inside.

When I open my eyes today, there’s a small basket of cookies waiting for me. And the sight is so achingly familiar that I rush towards it, pushing aside the chair in my urgency, and grab a cookie from the basket. It’s warm with more chocolate than dough, just as she always made them.

“I love you ma,” I say, and take a bite from the round, feeling a tear run down my cheeks when my teeth sink into it and the taste hits my tongue.

It’s perfect. 

Buttery and soft, yet chewy enough that I can feel every crumb in my mouth. The chocolate smears on my tongue and the side of my mouth, and shivers run down my spine from the light bitterness of her favorite dark chocolate. 

It’s perfect. But it’s not hers.

I take a second bite of the cookie and burst into tears. It is missing her touch, her love. That dash of sea salt. The slightly burned corners that I would tease her about sometimes, and she would point to the words on her apron. Her smile when she sees me reach for another one. 

And I miss her, so much that it hurts. It really hurts whenever I sit at the dining table and I look over at her chair, gathering dust because nobody sits on it. Or when I hear her favorite music and have to cup my palms over my ears to stop myself from screaming. Or even when my family cries over her photo and comforts one another, but I can’t because her photo doesn’t mean anything to me, with her strained camera smile and distracted eyes.

Through a haze of tears, I hear somebody knock at our door, but I don’t have the energy to go and open it. It is only when I feel a warm hand on my shoulder that I look up.

“I’m so sorry,” my brother says. “I knew you were looking for the recipe, so when I found it, I wanted to surprise you. I’m so-”

I cut him off by wrapping my arms around him and squeezing. A satisfied sigh escapes his lips, and I smile tearfully. I can’t remember the last time I’ve hugged him after Ma’s passing.

“They were amazing,” I say. “I just miss Ma.”

“I know,” he says, detaching himself from my death grip. “And I wasn’t trying to make you upset. I just wanted to see you smile. It’s been a while since you’ve done that.”

“I feel so alone,” I whisper. “I feel so incredibly alone sometimes, even if you and Pa and Gramma are all around me. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Yes, you do,” he says matter-of-factly, and I let out a strange sound, almost like a tired scream. 

“Really?” I ask. “What?”

“Remember that time I was really rude to Ma, and you told me to snap out of whatever stupid teen angst I had buried myself in and understand that I’m not the only one with problems? And you were 8 years old.”

“I always was the mature one between us,” I say tightly.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he says quietly. “You’re not the only one feeling alone.”

I open my mouth to retort, but when I see the tears gathered in his eyes, all I can do is pull him into another hug.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally, my voice trembling from barely restrained tears. “Thank you for that.”

He nods, crying silently into my shoulder, and I hold him tightly. I don’t how long the two of us stay in that position, and I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Because until now, we were both alone, trying and failing to pick up the pieces and start over. Start over from a loss that uprooted our lives and made it something completely unexpected.

But now we’re together, and we can heal together. After all, that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?