the language of loss

Mind wanders for a second, then goes numb – like a radio losing signal, static replacing clarity. I perform the miracle of holding back tears, a skill learned too young, a magic no child should have to master. 

Three days ago marked mama leaving this earth, and I forgot. The guilt of forgetting crashes into me like waves. I was never prepared to forget the sound of her voice – that melody that used to sing me awake, that warmth that could heal any hurt. But I never thought I would forget this day: December 21st, 2009. A date that should be carved into my bones.

Got home from school to grandma's, and life permanently shifted on its axis. Never stopped missing her, never will – grief becomes a companion that walks beside you, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, but always present. I feel somehow guilty for forgetting the date, but my heart remembers. It always remembers. Three days ago, my heart was aching for her without knowing why, like a phantom limb sensing a storm. 

I find myself randomly baking something whenever I miss her, like a car on autopilot. My hands know the recipes my mind has forgotten – measuring ingredients by memory and longing, mixing love and loss into every batch. The kitchen becomes a temple of remembrance, flour-dusted and sacred.

Oh, if I could just talk to her, tell her everything. That's why life scares the crap out of me now – the knowledge of mortality being a thief, stealing away those we love without warning, without mercy. One moment a heartbeat pulses strong and sure, the next it becomes an echo, then – silence. A silence so complete it has its own sound. 

I never got to say goodbye. Instead, I got stuck with Boony to tutor me for my exams, and somehow grew up years within days. Time became elastic – stretching endlessly in moments of pain, then snapping forward, leaving childhood behind like a shed skin. 

I remember my cousin coming to me, 

"I know where she is, mom told me but said not to tell you" she said, and hope – that treacherous miracle – bloomed in my chest. Hesitantly, I asked where. She said "up," and for one brilliant, beautiful moment, joy couldn't be contained. Mama's not dead as I thought; she's just up at my grandma's house. How simple, how perfect, how– 

"No," she says, "I meant up in heaven."

I stay silent. That is when I first learned what a heartbreak is. Not the romantic kind that songs prepare you for, not the gentle crack of disappointment, but the complete shattering of a child's world. The moment when "up" stops meaning stairs and starts meaning forever. When heaven becomes not a comfort, but a distance too far to cross. 

Now I bake, and remember, and sometimes forget dates but never feelings. And somewhere between the measuring cups and mixing bowls, I find pieces of her – in the way I fold batter, in the recipes I somehow know without knowing, in the muscle memory of love that outlasts even memory itself.