Today is one year since my mum passed.

Yes, 12 months since she hasn’t been a part of my life. 365 days that I haven’t seen nor spoken to her, for real, I mean. I speak to her. I tell her things that are going on. Which is basically me speaking to myself. A one-sided but regular conversation that I have with my mum. It helps and it doesn’t.

It helps when I’m bantering with her, calling her Booby, and just reminding her, or rather me, of all the funny, cheeky things she used to say and do. Happy recollections of her make me feel invariably happier and smiley. Not so much, when I’m missing her and feeling morose. It happens. What to do. I’m trying to feel less like that but it’s not always easy to control or stop emotions. Tears well-up automatically. I wonder where and how I manage to manufacture so much tears. My tear ducts are consistently well lubricated.

I see my mum every day in my head and via her photos. I have a photo wall and other photos in my home office. They are some of my favourite poses of her. Smiling, laughing and just being herself. I’ve also sort of have seen her through my very rare, nondescript dreams. Blurry dreams that make little sense. I don’t know where to start as there is no beginning. No structure. I cannot describe them as I don’t know how to. I think I know it was her in the dream. I think, I think too much and want to see her so badly that when I’m asleep, my brain conjures up images, hazy pictures that I think are dreams of her.

The thing is almost everyone in my family has had dreams about my mum. Soon after she passed, sisters number 1 and 2 had clear as day, dreams where my mum interacted with them. Brother number 2 has had several dreams about my mum and brother number 1, and of the two of them together. Brother number 2’s partner actually ‘saw’ my mum, like ‘real in person’ walking around in their home. That was not long after she had passed. Hmm. Niece number 4 has had dreams of my mum. I was in one of them. Yay. And, just a few weeks ago, niece number 3 told me she dreamt of the younger version of her ‘Aputha’ or grandmother. Back when my mum lived with brother number 1 and his family. In the dream, ‘Aputha’ was doing her walking exercises. My mum walked intently for a whole hour every day when she was younger, and able to.

I want to ‘see’ her again. I’d very much like to ‘see’ her again, in whatever form or matter. I’m wishing and willing. My husband doesn’t quite understand this. Never mind.

Also, 52 weeks have passed by since I have washed by mum’s hair. Monday was her hair wash and vegetarian day. To be perfectly honest, every day was vegetarian day but Monday and Friday were the more official vegetarian days. No vegetarian meals ordered and/or prepared. I’ve stopped using my Grab app for food delivery. No more twice weekly visits for dhal at Mydina, the restaurant located near where we live.

No fruits bought. I don’t look out for pisang mas, papaya, and guava. No Sunsweet prunes either. No groceries. No toiletries. My mum was a hoarder of toilet paper and kitchen towels. She also collected Goodmaid washing detergent, and Dutch Lady full cream milk. I want to laugh and cry at this memory. No medicines purchased. I don’t make mental notes or a phone list for Symbicort, Vasterel, Duphalac or Nutren Optimum etc. No doctor’s appointments made. No need for Dr Rose, her palliative doctor. No Kalyani, her carer.

No haircuts. Shorter hair suited my mum. But she insisted on wearing it long, and tied up in a bun. It was only when it became increasingly difficult to manage her hair routine that she relented. I’m glad she did. No toe nails or finger nails clipped. I was always afraid I’d nick her skin, which I did once. I found a finger nail and a few strands of hair when I was cleaning her condo. I saved them. No Tamil serials to record or talk about. No Sundari, the heroine of the long running eponymous Tamil soap opera to get upset with. No Astro to subscribe to. No new Tamil books ordered. No t-shirts or sarongs added to her wardrobe.

A whole year without my mum, and all of the above.  

It’s still very hard to get my head around the fact, yes, the actual, palpable, done and dusted fact, that she’s not here anymore. It’s harder to think that I will never see her again. I wish, I wish. I miss my Booby. What to do.