The day I arrived back home, a local Fox affiliate was interviewing those waiting for us, asking them what our favorite foods were and what they would make for our first meal at home. My mother got anxious easily, so she couldn’t quite get any of the words out in front of the anchor’s microphone and the cameras. On the drive back, my mother explained this to me, with a slightly disappointing look and subtle defensive demeanor. “But I was trying to say I’ll cook him pasta with cheese and chicken,” she said definitively, her face animated now and her pitch elevated. She always sounded like she was slightly singing whenever she spoke, stretching her words just a bit longer and her pitch a bit higher than usual. I guess this always stood out because the rest of my family’s Indo-Carribean English always sounded a bit more firm and choppy. “Wah-Tah” instead of “woder/water.” I know the sound of her voice belied her emotions, but I also knew we both loved each other. Of course I knew what she meant. I don’t even remember if I actually had that meal, but I would have enjoyed any meal really, and I knew that’s how she expressed her love. The matter seemed settled, but eleven years later, I still find myself returning to this memory often.

My sister told me that when I was away, she took down all the paintings and photos in the house and left one photo portrait of me up on the wall. She read Psalms 91 every night, and she stopped watching the news. She didn’t celebrate any holidays that year. When I came back, she put everything back up and filled the house with little touches of herself everywhere.

***

For the past three years, I felt like I had completely regressed to a teenager. My therapy sessions and my journal entries were straight-up embarrassing. They were filled with details on my romantic interest, my reacquaintence with rejection, and with hope dangling just out of reach that if I investigated and analyzed the situation enough, I would find that definitive answer on whether or not my feelings were reciprocated. Occassionally, I would bring up my mother.

***

I regret privileging moments over rituals.

***

I’m confused that although my mom always showed her love for me, I somehow needed her words as proof, and somewhere along the line, I might have even valued that more.

I felt sad. For all this love I have for my mother, I can’t say I know her favorite color. What was her favorite dish? What would her story be?

***

“She’s tired now” the doctor told me. At this point, I consented to a DNR several times. The ventilator was damaging her throat, and she needed to be extubated. Strong as my mother was, she did not want to be in pain. She could not bare to look at my uncle on the ventilator on the video feed. She was worried about my grandmother, who died shortly after my mom was admitted in the hospital. Apparently, my grandmother kept her resolve throughout, talking through most of it and passing just before the point where she needed a ventilator. I knew removing my mom off life-support would honor her wishes.

Our last visit was actually the second time I saw her after a previous scare. She looked noticably different this time. She had dark blemishes on her face, and her lips were chapped. I guess you could never be prepared for that, but she looked surprisingly like her self at the first visit that it made this all the more shocking. Even though I had the first visit to get my last words in order, I was still deeply unsatisfied with what I had in my hands. Much like my blog, it was a collection of scattered thoughts, coming out on paper because it needed to.

My sister however said everything so perfectly. A part of me was disappointed that my years of literature, philosophy, and other classes lead to something so garbled. I was disappointed I was even thinking about this at all.

“You’re finally coming home now mom. Things will be a bit different now, but you will be okay, you’ll see. And we will all be okay too” my sister told her.

My mom passed a half hour after we said our last words. We like to think she held on just for us. I like to think she went just before she was removed off life support to absolve me from any future guilt I may have had on that. 

My mother told the doctors to tell us she will be okay when she was admitted. When we went to say our goodbyes, my sister and I agreed we would remain positive, to let her know we would be okay, and to give her a proper send-off, whatever the fuck that means in this shitstorm of a time we are in.

When we got home, we took all the pictures off the walls. We won’t be celebrating any holidays for the rest of this year, but we will all be together. We’ll stop listening to the news for now. We’ll recite her favorite prayer, Psalms 23, every night, as we have been doing for the past few months now. I may not have ever heard her say what her favorite dish was or her favorite color, but I had to believe I know just enough. For the rituals I wanted to start with her: cooking family recipies, and drinking tea together, I’ll do them with family and friends, and in that moment, feel connected with her.

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