For a brief moment at my cousin’s wedding yesterday, I wondered where mum was.
And then I spent the next ten minutes crying upwards and the next few hours imagining what she would look like in 2016.
Her style of hijab would have changed, that’s for sure. Back in 2004 people were still wearing those big square ones you’d have to fold yourself, and tuck in with pins. Most people wear instant shawls these days. What would she look like in an instant shawl?
Would she have put on weight, or lost some?
Changed her glasses to bifocals?
Grown more grey hair?
Would she reprimand people for greeting me with “When are you getting married?” instead of “How are you and what drives you?” Would she be unlike everyone else and be proud of me for becoming an independent, self-reliant woman? For always being true to myself? For inheriting her spunk? For my world travels?
How would she feel about being 60 years old?
Would I have pictures with her on my phone? I have zero pictures of my mum on my phone.
I found this song today at work and cried four tissues’ worth of tears at my desk. At home I watched the video again, and I found myself crying; pleading, “Don’t die. Don’t die.” Just like I did the night when we thought she was dying, and I sat at the foot of her bed, bawling into my aunt’s lap. I could plead all I wanted. She died two nights later.
Exactly one month until the 12th year. It does get easier. Sometimes it’s almost okay. But other times it really isn’t.
And you’re just gonna have to cry yourself to sleep like I will tonight.