10 March 2016, the date I will never forget for as long as I’m on this earth. This was the last day I ever spoke to my mum, because during the early parts of 11 March 2016, God recalled one of his favourites.
To write about this isn’t easy, I never thought it would be when I started. I don’t think you’re ever the same after you lose your mother, your biggest fan, your best friend. I can’t even explain the feelings I experience daily but all I know is that life is no longer as it was. I know I’ve changed and everything around me with it.
I also know that I need to begin a new normal because all the things I previously thought important suddenly seem insignificant. I don’t want to go into details of how I lost my mum, I believe it was predestined.
I’m writing this so that I can document memories about my mother while they are fresh in my mind lest I forget them with time. I will continue to add memories as I remember them.
I remember my mum enjoyed reading – books, newspapers, periodicals, magazines, billboards, everything. I would look up and see her mouthing every word she read silently as if they meant the world to her.
I remember my mum always referred to us (to others) as hers: “my Aysha” or “my Ahmed” or “my Issa“.
I remember her waiting to have breakfast with me, always (unless I was away).
I remember her being loud and full of life.
I remember her scolding me saying: “You think you’re perfect…”
I remember her striking up a conversation with random people in a checkout queue, a long-haul flight, the Tour Eiffel elevator while waiting for me at the airport.
I remember her snoring, it held a certain comfort for me knowing she’s there.
I remember my mum loved music, she hummed to songs on the radio or our playlists. She loved Queen, Roy Orbison, Elvis Presley, Nana Mouskouri, Maria Callas, Luciano Pavarotti, to name a few (this list will increase as I go through her CD collection).
I remember my mum loved house plants, our flat was infested with potted plants all healthy and happy, well taken care of.
My mother was not perfect, she did not have to or want to be but the day I lost her was when a piece of my heart died. All I have left now are fragmented memories and a time slipped through my fingers.
Fatima Patel (née Mayet) 10 January 1944 – 11 March 2016