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There’s a big gaping hole that is inside of me every mother’s day.

It’s the grief of not having had the chance to fully know my mother. I knew her when she was sick and she needed support. I was there to take her to hospital visits. To be next to her. To sing songs for her to sleep. To care for her. And in the nights that she was in pain, to soothe her.

Yet I didn’t get to fully know her. She was the quiet one. She was reserved. The one whose thoughts I didn’t know nor at that age dare to ask. I knew there was one time I heard her crying in her room. Alone. Yet in the morning after, no trace of that sadness can be found. She kept much to herself specially her pain.

There were times I saw glimpses of her spark. Of how her eyes sparkled and her laughter reverberated in the air. But those moments were far too few and in between. In between the times of sadness, of the financial hardship that our family went through, of my own grieving and pain as a teenager and then of her illness.

Mother’s Day is a day for me to cry and pour out how I wish that life is different. That I still have her with us. That I get to know her one more time and relish in who I know she is- a resilient, gentle and wise woman.

Mother’s Day for me is to be reminded of my mom and the bits and pieces of memory that I have of her. Piecing each one like a mantle to comfort me in my tears. Knowing how much of her quietness, her strength and her generosity has stayed in me.

To all of us who grieve not having our moms to celebrate this day with, I feel for you. May our hearts be held with the knowledge that we were loved by our moms in the best way they knew how.

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