Here It Is Again

Dearest darling Bubba, my Aabi

Here comes May again. It spells the same, it sounds the same. The weather seems to be as it always is in May. And yet, since May of 2025, the shift has not merely been limited to the numbers. This month carries so much now that even the sound of it stirs every nerve and every impulse in me. Although in my mind, it lasts only for 6 days. These are the six days where boundaries of life and death intertwine. Six days that carry my whole world, both in immense happiness and immense loss.

I know now what happiness truly means. I know now the essence of completeness. I have glimpsed heaven and experienced love in its purest, strongest form. But I also know now what loss means. I know the ache of missing my child. I also now know what hell is. And again, I also recognize love in a form I was previously unaware of.

Sweetheart, in the year that has gone by, you have been as integral to me as any child is to any mother, in any household, anywhere across the world. I can never, in any combination of letters and words, express the extent of missing you. Every subatomic part of me craves for you at every nano, pico part of every moment. I remember the way your hair felt as my fingers ran through it, the gentle blink of your eyes, the softness of your touch against me, the comforting weight of your head resting on my shoulder, the adorable crinkle of your nose, and the radiant smile that lit up your face. I can still picture your two front teeth peeking out when you spoke or laughed, the sparkle in your eyes when mischief danced within, the gestures of your hands, the language of your body, and the lovely way you moved when you danced. Your heartwarming voice and the convincing expressions you wore when denied something are forever etched in my memory.

I yearn for every second to hear you speak to me, to run to me, to cling to me, to playfully fight to get your way. I long to see you and your sister dance together again to your favorite songs. I wish I could capture the moments of you both dressing up, putting on a show with beautiful hairstyles. I want to hear your joyful voices from the bathroom, singing loudly during bathtime, and then cozying up together to watch your favorite show on TV.

But then, everything has been still since the day you closed your eyes and slept eternally. Those horrifying moments also never leave my mind. The moments when you were wheeled away in the hospital. Watching your head become smaller as the bed turned the corner of the hospital corridor. Your neatly combed hair, bowed up nicely, which I would never get to stroke with my fingers again. Your little face would never now sit in my hands. I would never get to see the twinkle in your eyes so closely again, and your smile would never sit in front of my eyes for me to tug at your cheeks to make you laugh and see life.

My baby, your last physical presence is as much mine as you are. In those moments, when you last blinked, when my hands felt your soft hands for the last time, and when I held you close to my heart, in my arms, feeling life, for the very last time. Expression in every way will always fall short of my yearning for you.

This month of 2025 and then all numbers that land forming whatever dates thereafter, will be as empty as anything could ever be. I write to you with all my heart, hoping that perhaps something will reach you through the thoughts and love of those who read this. Maybe their love will bring back a shimmer, a shimmer only your smile can convey, in whatever way this celestial existence allows. My baby, you know that I will always know.

Love you, Aabi.

Your mumma (always always waiting for you)