Three years. Of not having you around. Of not being able to pick up the phone and vent, yell, cry or just talk random nonsense to you on the phone. Three years of no “I miss you”s right before you disconnect the call. Three years of no inane fights and the making ups later. Three years, and the pain is still there. It never goes away. There will always be a you shaped hole in my heart. Am sitting on your bed as I write this. And I want to just lie down and sleep. I want to feel your arms around me tonight. Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy, Amma. I am not sad anymore. I am stronger. I no longer break into tears at the sight of your photograph or when someone mentions you. I smile instead. A wistful one, but still – a smile.

I tell Harshitha stories of us together, of random stupid pranks that I used to pull and get caught. Every. Single. Time. Of how you turned all the clocks in the house around when I had to go to that school picnic and wouldn’t listen to you. Of how happy you were when I tod you of P. How your eyes twinkled when you saw Harshitha for the first time. And how you used to sing her to sleep, and how she used to croon along with you. I remember you taking us to random places without any planning whatsoever.  I remember it because it perhaps was a fitting example of the kind of mother you were to me.  Adventurous, determined, realistic yet also humble.

I wish I could be even half as good as you were, Amma. I wish I’d said it out more often to you, how much I love you. I see so much of you in Harshitha these days. Her lips look exactly like yours. They twitch just like yours did when you were angry or sad. The other day she shot back a look at me, and it sent a shiver down my spine because it was *your* look. I know you’re around, looking at us from wherever you are.  I hope am doing you proud. And I hope they are serving you your special tea, with extra sugar, just like you like it.


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