Requiem

A few months ago, my mother died.

Her existence consisted of pain and sorrow.
She was the lingering ache of a Beethoven sonata, she was the angst of Brahms; whereas my father is a Bach partita and the happy summer of Mendelssohn.

She taught me to read palms, to embroider, and to look within because spirituality provides more truth than materiality. She shared a secret with me: that the supernatural and the natural are only as distant as we permit them to be.

Through her, I suffered more than enough for one person's life. But at least I have a clarity she did not. I see beyond the mist and am not immobilised by its cloying, moist dullness. I do not regret anything that has facilitated who I am.

Mama,
In death, rest in peace, as you never did in life.