The Day the World Went Quiet
I just lost my mother.
There are griefs that whisper, and there are griefs that roar. This one is both. It is the quiet ache in the middle of the night, and it is the deafening silence when I realize she will never call my name again.
She wasn’t just my mother. When my father died in 1987, she became both my Dad and Mom—my shield and my anchor, my teacher and my fiercest protector. She carried the weight of two lives so I could carry mine.
Now, she is gone, and the world feels like it’s missing a piece it will never get back.
I miss her hugs—the kind that wrapped not just around my body, but around my entire being. I miss her endless stream of advice—sometimes tender, sometimes stubborn, always rooted in love. I even miss her gentle scoldings, because they meant she was still looking out for me.
Grief is a strange companion. It hides in the smell of her favorite cooking, in the old sweater I still can’t throw away, in the quiet spaces of the day when my mind wanders back to her without permission. I find myself wanting to tell her about my day, to hear her laugh, to ask her what she thinks—only to remember she’s not here to answer.
Mama, I miss you in ways I don’t have the words for. But I carry you with me—in my choices, in my dreams, in the person I am still trying to become. The love you gave me did not end when you left. It lingers, like sunlight in the evening sky—fading, but never truly gone.
They say time will heal. I think time will only teach me to live with the ache. But if loving you so deeply means hurting this much, then I will bear the hurt a hundred times over.
Thank you, Mama, for being my home when I had none, my courage when I had little, and my joy when the world felt heavy. The day you left, the world went quiet… but in my heart, your voice will never stop speaking.
