Lim: Falling

I AM not sad. But why do the tears still fall?

I look at the growing pile of newspaper columns that now sit on a shelf in my bedroom. When my mother was still around, she would diligently cut my newspaper columns out every week and compile them in clear books.

And she did this for every, single article of mine that’s been published in the last 20 years. That’s 1,000 columns, give or take—not including the travel articles and the other articles I’ve written for other publications even beyond 20 years ago.

My mother religiously kept newspaper clippings of everything I had written and every time my face or name appeared in the newspaper for whatever reason.

Such constancy and consistency of effort and action can only be the product of a love so great—such as a mother’s love for her child. And I realize this—only too late.

And perhaps that is why my tears still fall.

I am not one who lives with regret but this time—I do. I live with a lot of regrets—too many to count and too painful to think about. Things I should have done but didn’t do. Things I shouldn’t have done but did. Words I should have said but didn’t say. Words I shouldn’t have said but did.

I wish I could have held my tongue—the one that’s always coated in sarcasm. I wish I could have smirked less, snapped less, rolled my eyes less. I wish I could have been a nicer, gentler and kinder daughter. I wish I could have pleased my mother more, broken her heart less.

But such is the folly of living like you have forever—you end up living with eternal regret.

And perhaps this is why my tears still fall.

There are times when I tell myself I will not cry tonight and sometimes, I succeed. But most times, I don’t. It hurts so much to think about all the things I cannot undo and all the things I can no longer do.

There is no pain score for this.

I look at the pile of newspaper columns sitting on a shelf in my bedroom. I decide to count them. Twenty. It’s been 20 weeks since my mother was taken away from me, first by illness and then, by God.

You don’t really know what forever means till you lose someone you love to death. Then you begin to understand what forever really means.

My mother would cut my articles out by the end of the day it was published or at the latest, the following morning. She did this without fail, whatever her health was—over 20 years for a thousand articles.

Twenty articles now sit and stagnate on my shelf. This means I haven’t moved in 20 weeks. This means I have moped for 20 weeks.

The disparity is stark. I see now how my diligence pales in comparison to my mother’s love and devotion. I must try harder. I clearly cannot hold a candle to her. Well, now I must. There is no other choice. Because my mother is gone. Forever.

Perhaps this is why my tears still fall.

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