Grieving my mother

 Sometimes, in my dreams, I forget that she’s not here anymore. I think she’s still alive; I can feel her presence, palpable and tangible. Then suddenly the fog clears and I remember.

I had a dream - that my phone rang and the screen showed, “Ammi calling.” I frantically reached to answer it, only to find it was someone else using her phone. Her phone number exists, but not her. 

Like a small child with separation anxiety, my subconscious constantly awaits the jingle of her bangles. Always on the edge, waiting for her to call me to her. But then I remember.

It comes in gut wrenching waves, this grief. Hits me like a truck out of nowhere. She was saving money to come to England. We found her little purse when going through her things. What was that about the best laid plans...? 

This is a strange kind of grief. It renders me speechless. I don’t wax lyrical about her. It toys with me. Kicks me in the stomach and when I’m doubled over, blows out my brains so I can’t think. It suffocates me so I can’t breathe. It clouds my vision, so that I see nothing but her hazy face. It pushes me violently into the deepest, darkest pit of emptiness, with no way out. It traps me, and mocks me. She’s not here anymore, and there’s nothing I can do about it.