I thought losing a loved one would mean losing the memories we have of them in us but then I was so wrong, the memories are the ones we live with for the rest of our lives. As long as we are still breathing and walking on the face of the earth, those memories will flow over us like shadows.
Sunday morning holds the best memories of my mother not saying that because I'm a foodie "well, I am a foodie but not entirely though" my mother's hands would do magic every Sunday morning, she would wake us up every early in the morning, call every human living in the house for morning devotion and after that "now here comes my favorite part" she would weave through the kitchen, whipping up boiled rice and chicken stew.
The aroma would pull everyone in like a warm hug, then she would call out my name
"Tari come help me in the kitchen" I thought I was the only one bearing that name but then my siblings would run to the kitchen before me thinking Mom wants to gift me a piece of meat.
Being in the kitchen with mum is not always boring, the moment I step into that kitchen, I would always tell myself "welcome to the world of endless stories" because my mother would feed my ears with different stories, she would recount tales of village romance, the big city dreams she had, the love lost and found, being surrounded by those stories, I would find myself time travelling to those scenes in the stories, I would create the images in my head like I was present in those moments.
My mother's laughter was contagious it spreads fast and good, my siblings can't help but always join in even if they know nothing about the joke that was said.
One fateful day my mother went to work and never came back home to us. I got back from school and saw strange and familiar faces in our house. Leaving the house that morning, I didn't remember any planned party to hold in my house, so I was surprised to see those people.
I walked into the house with curiosity filling my heart, after taking a few steps I saw my aunt coming out of the room with tears rolling down her cheeks, at the moment I knew something had happened. Immediately she saw me, she ran towards me and fell on my arms. And she said those words I've lived with for the longest.
"Your mother is dead" she said. I stood in shock like a statue with tears rolling down my cheeks like heavy rain. My heart was filled with emotions unexplainable because this is someone I woke up next to and exchanged morning pleasantries with.
When mum passed the house became silent, my siblings and I would try to scatter the house if mum was gonna come yell at us but the reality set in that she is no longer with us. From the day of her passing Sundays became different. Often the kitchen would stir, the scent of her stew swatting through empty rooms. It was as if my mother was in the kitchen cooking still gathering her loved ones, and her giggle would fill the entire house.
My mother's favourite place in the house was the kitchen, currently the kitchen feels big and quiet. Often I would find myself expecting her to walk in from nowhere and her voice would echo in my head only to remember that she is no more here.
One Sunday morning I walked into the kitchen expecting nothing maybe just exploring and I found a pot simmering, a plate set, and a note on it "Eat my baby" I opened the pot, and behold it was stew just like how mum used to make it. Tears blurred in my eyes and my sister walked in and her presence woven into the air. She started making some funny jokes that made us laugh out loud that we could hear our own laughter echoing in the air.
From that moment, Sundays started becoming normal. Sundays were for cooking, remembering, and letting mum's magic live on.
Thanks for reading š§”