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  • Writer's pictureKatherine Abraham

Dear Mummy, Happy Birthday!

I wish I had the right words to write for you today, Mummy, but somehow it seems that I am left bereft of both word and emotion.

Its your fourth birthday in heaven and I hope the angels are celebrating you better than I ever could. Its your first with Dad and my sis Ivy there too. Are you three happy? That's perhaps all that I want to know.

For one who consciously stays away from science- fiction and fantasies, I wish there was a secret portal hidden somewhere, where I could sneak in, meet you, kiss you happy birthday, lament that my cheeks aren't still as soft as yours, and then tease dad that he wasn't earning his kisses till November and quickly zoom back to reality. I'm sure Ivy has her fair share now.

Missing you is no longer an option, it's just a helpless, hopeless numb- unfeeling part of me which I am slowly trying to accept. I watch with envy as I see a young child wrapped around her mother for life, not willing to let go, and hear the precious coos of a baby stirring from her sleep as her mother nurses her back into her sweet reverie.

They say being an only child helps. Does it really? I wonder. I no longer receive a fair hearing and every day seems like a trial with a different devil on a different level. Life has in some ways just becomes lacklustre. Gone is the urge to splurge, gone is the willingness to try a new place each month and gone is the need to be accepted.

I used to think vulnerability is strength. But now I know that vulnerability is just vulnerability - a fodder for social vultures. Try as I may to behave normal, waking up to an empty home each day is just a grim reminder that I don't have you and dad with me anymore. So its just me and the shipload of memories you both have left behind.

Life is tougher than usual now. Some people try to alleviate my pain from time to time but most don't even recognise I still carry open wounds. I don't blame them. They haven't trod the path I have and they possibly won't realise what it feels like.

You never talked about strength when you were here, but it was always on display. I'd see you night after night suffer with your asthma only to display your most resilient self each morning. Even at the hospital, all you wanted was me and you'd be back home. I wish you told me where you got that strength from. I honestly could use some now.

Each morning I think of you as I see your beaming face on one phone and dad's on the other, my only way of ensuring that there is still hope for the new day.

You'll be happy to learn that I am no longer the little fusspot you left behind. I eat without complaints, I have fixed meal timings and for the first time I am actually respecting my sleep hours.

What you may not be so happy about though is that I no longer write outside of work anymore. I've lost both my muses. There's a deep dark void that for now seems unending. I must find a new muse soon else I'm afraid that part of me will be lost forever. The nights are longer now as I weep, and mourn each time I see you and dad in dreams, the only good thing I own.

I pray if I am upset, I pray for guidance and then I pray each day that God reminds you even in your rest that your baby girl is trying to live without you (even though both of you'll conveniently forgot to teach that part of life lessons 101). I hope He has told you that I am taking tiny solo baby steps and will learn to fly solo soon.

Now I hope I haven't ruined your birthday party up there with the long letter. Miss me some and have an extra slice of cake for me, Will you?



Your baby


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