MUM’S THE WORD (Memoir series – Story 1)

Hushed Reflections on Loss and Hope

The warm noon sun is beating down on me, casting a bright shine over the rows of tombstones. The grass is dry and yellowed, crunching underfoot as I make my way through the maze of graves.

The air is thick with the scent of flowers, both fresh and wilted, placed in the loving memory of those who have passed. The occasional breeze brings with it the rustling of leaves and the creaking of nearby trees.

The distant hum of a car engine reminds me that the world outside this place is still going on. But here, in the graveyard, time seems to stand still.

The silence is occasionally interrupted by the hushed voices of mourners. People who’ve come to remember those they’ve lost. To reflect on their lives and to feel a connection with them once again.

So much time has moved on. Yet those poignant memories remain vivid.

Mummy’s body is being lowered into the grave. With relatives and friends gathered around.

I’m confused and overwhelmed.  Am trying to decipher the chants and prayers. Confused with all the religious procedures and ceremonial activities. 

My cousin pushes some sand onto my palm and urges me with a compulsive expression in his eyes. I’m feeling reluctant to throw sand on her body. My 10-year-old timid brain imagines that she would be in discomfort if sand fell on her relaxed sleeping face. 

I instinctively obey, though reluctantly. The moment the sand falls on my mom’s body, I painfully grimace at the thought of how I could do this to her. 

The small stones in the sand strike the wooden coffin in a distressing splatter. I’m dismayed at the insensitive nature of this procedure. Wasn’t it difficult enough to die? 

I visualise her accepting the sand dropped on her as the absolute confirmation of my having cast away all hope of her coming back alive. I could almost hear her saying – Son, how could you do this to me?

I’m harbouring this strong secret sentiment in the inner recesses of my mind that I am about to witness a miracle since I am praying strongly for her. I am naively hoping she wakes from her sleep all hale and hearty. Especially since the priests are repeatedly chanting a verse imploring God to renew the dead person. And I’m waiting. Waiting for the miracle to come.

My hopes of my mom coming back to life are dashed when they proceed to close the grave with the concrete slabs. I feel a twinge of guilt that my prayers weren’t strong enough. God seems unwilling to give my mom a fresh lease on life.

I’m still determined to persistently hope that all that’s happening around me would go away like a bad dream. All I want now is to open my eyes to find mom’s smiling face appreciating my earnest prayers.

I eventually walk out of the cemetery disoriented and dejected. I’m still perplexed at why such apparent indulgence in spiritual chants and ceremonial practices has failed to bring back my mom.

The church bells bring me back to the present.

Memories. Memories. Memories.

The sands of time have been falling. Slipping through my fingers, and now my heart’s gone numb.

I pass by rows of headstones on the graves, each one a tribute to a life now passed on to the other side. Adorned with flowers, trinkets, and burnt candles quenched in the wind.

A sense of comfort washes over me. There’s no place that anchors you to the past, present, and future, than a cemetery.