Seeing as you're one of only two people I’ve known literally my entire life, I feel as though I know you enough to say what I’m about to say.
There are things to be said about sharing what could be perceived as 'private' thoughts in a 'public' space, but we'll save that conversation for another day.
For now, what I want to say is this-
I don't know whether you're the first person I saw when I peeled my little eyes open for the first time, chances are it was either you or a nurse. It definitely wasn't Dad, because he only arrived a couple of days later, armed with a smile and unrealistic expectations of what a new-born baby was supposed to look like, and compared me to a jaundiced rat.
But this isn't about me, it's about you.
I don't remember lots of things before a certain age, I just know they happened. Like how you used to drop me off at playschool, read me stories, and allow me to put all kinds of crap in your handbag everywhere we went.
Other things I do remember, like the time you took me to the barber just so I could have my hair styled in some ridiculous style that was fashionable at the time. And then we got soaked in the rain on the way back home and I cried because my ridiculous style was ruined and you spent an hour trying to recreate it for me.
And the time you took me to buy football shoes and you let me have the expensive ones even though they weren't that much better than the cheaper ones and then you carefully poured wax along the stitching so they would last longer. They didn't last all that long but the memories, those last forever, you don't need wax for those. I remember them like it was yesterday.
And then as we got older and bigger, and you got older and smaller, there were other things. Like the countless times you carried those massive tins of flour from the chakki even though they seemed to get heavier with each trip. And those big bags from the vegetable market that you hauled all the way up the hill because we were too busy being busy to help. I also remember the time I woke up in the middle of the night because I had a nightmare that involved you not being around anymore and you sat up with me and explained the concept of death as best you could to a 12 year old. And then soon after, even when things were difficult, you stayed strong and got on with it with a combination of grace and fortitude, that I still, after all these years, struggle to comprehend, but will always admire you for. And even when you were weak that was ok because sometimes it takes a special sort of strength just to show weakness.
You are my rock, my ever-present guiding light, a light that never seems to diminish with time but instead grows brighter with every passing day. You are amazing in every possible way. And never let anyone tell you otherwise.
I love you mum.
There are things to be said about sharing what could be perceived as 'private' thoughts in a 'public' space, but we'll save that conversation for another day.
For now, what I want to say is this-
I don't know whether you're the first person I saw when I peeled my little eyes open for the first time, chances are it was either you or a nurse. It definitely wasn't Dad, because he only arrived a couple of days later, armed with a smile and unrealistic expectations of what a new-born baby was supposed to look like, and compared me to a jaundiced rat.
But this isn't about me, it's about you.
I don't remember lots of things before a certain age, I just know they happened. Like how you used to drop me off at playschool, read me stories, and allow me to put all kinds of crap in your handbag everywhere we went.
Other things I do remember, like the time you took me to the barber just so I could have my hair styled in some ridiculous style that was fashionable at the time. And then we got soaked in the rain on the way back home and I cried because my ridiculous style was ruined and you spent an hour trying to recreate it for me.
And the time you took me to buy football shoes and you let me have the expensive ones even though they weren't that much better than the cheaper ones and then you carefully poured wax along the stitching so they would last longer. They didn't last all that long but the memories, those last forever, you don't need wax for those. I remember them like it was yesterday.
And then as we got older and bigger, and you got older and smaller, there were other things. Like the countless times you carried those massive tins of flour from the chakki even though they seemed to get heavier with each trip. And those big bags from the vegetable market that you hauled all the way up the hill because we were too busy being busy to help. I also remember the time I woke up in the middle of the night because I had a nightmare that involved you not being around anymore and you sat up with me and explained the concept of death as best you could to a 12 year old. And then soon after, even when things were difficult, you stayed strong and got on with it with a combination of grace and fortitude, that I still, after all these years, struggle to comprehend, but will always admire you for. And even when you were weak that was ok because sometimes it takes a special sort of strength just to show weakness.
You are my rock, my ever-present guiding light, a light that never seems to diminish with time but instead grows brighter with every passing day. You are amazing in every possible way. And never let anyone tell you otherwise.
I love you mum.
