When a piece of your heart dies

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.

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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

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