The first memory I have of my mother is of when I was four years old. She held my hand as I went down the slide, straight into a puddle. She giggled as water sprayed on her and hugged my soaking wet self.
When I was ten, I fractured my arm. She sat with me during the doctor’s visit and squeezed my hand when I yelled in pain. She was the first to sign my plaster with a message to stay brave and strong, and then covered the remaining space with lots of hearts and silly faces.
As I turned fifteen, the pressure of high school got to me. I used to sit alone in the dark and talked to no one. Mom came and switched on the light, sat beside me and took my hand. That was all I needed, a pillar of support I could lean on.
On the day of my graduation, I brought with me my very own personal cheerleader. She cheered and applauded as loud as she could, jumped onto the stage and spun me around, laughing and crying at the same time. Even though I seemed embarrassed, I was personally very happy to have made her proud.
She held my hand as she walked me down the aisle, tears glistening both her eyes and mine. As she thrust my hand in my partner’s, I thought I heard a soft sob but when I looked up, I saw a beaming smile that lit up her face.
One day, she told me. Tears wrecked my body as I heard the news. I couldn’t believe that the end was so near. I was not prepared for this.
All my life it was just my mother and me. She held my hand the entire way, and one day she just let go.
And then the day was here. Her hair gathered around her like a halo, an angelic smile on her face. Tubes punctured her body everywhere, her breathing laboured. I held her hand for the last time as she took her last breath.
Love of a mother, for a mother is deep and untainted. It gives you the most joy and its absence leaves you incomplete. This love is the purest, is the simplest, is the most extreme.
-Tanvi Jain, DPS Noida5 Likes