My mother was a very particular woman. She loved things to be done a certain way and was not afraid to step up and do them herself if she saw that a person wasn’t up to the task. I also commended her for not being adaptable when life required her to bend to its will. I often joke that her dying was an example of this bending. A woman as stubborn as she was wouldn’t have willingly surrendered to the hands of death like that. Not when she had four young boys to see and experience growing into fine young men.

Whenever I go through a rough patch, I like to remind myself that the worst thing I will ever face is already behind me. It’s a striking realisation, especially considering the adage that parents should never have to bury their children. It carries a weight similar to the truth that even as adults, we still need our parents at every turn. I know grown men and women who drive hours just to lay their heads on their parents’ laps, proving that you are never too old to be your parents’ baby.

This reflection was inspired by a Facebook post I saw last week asking if you have reached the age when your mother was pregnant with you. My mother was in her twenties when she had me, so it is possible I may have passed it. I have also lived more years without her than I did with her—she’s been gone for fifteen years now, but every day it feels like just yesterday.

I remember responding to a guy I was on a date with once with, ‘My mother would have loved you.’ Why I said that escapes me. I only remember the feeling that it brought and continues to bring. It is interesting because she and I never got the chance to discuss my sexuality because I was very young when she passed, but I like to believe that she always knew.

I see the way she would look at me in the many films I watch. There is a line in Love, Simon, where the mother played by Jennifer Garner says, ‘I knew you had a secret,’ when her gay son asks her if she had known about him. She tells him that when he was younger, he was always carefree. It was when he got older that he seemed more closed off. In a voice that comes out as a whisper, ‘It almost like I can feel you holding your breath.’ She tells him to exhale. The honesty in her words stayed with me, how a mother could stand by and helplessly watch as her son suffocated from societal pressures. I was in varsity when I watched the film for the first time, and I yearned for that moment. I recreated moments from my childhood using fragments of my memory and scenes from these films. In these mothers—holding their gay children with love and kindness, with warmth, hugging them when they feel like coming out, will make the weight of carrying an open secret lighter—I superposed my mother and myself. I wanted that experience, too.

These mothers smile, they hug their kids, and say, ‘I love you as you are.’ They give them that same look my mother would give me and continue, ‘I have always known. I have always known, and I love you.’

The guy was beautyful. He spoke with a softness that seemed to prioritise each and every word he uttered, and listened intently like you were the only person in the world. Maybe that is why I felt like he and my mother would’ve loved each other. They would have gotten along simply because they gave me space to be, they saw me and in turn allowed me to see myself. In his presence, it felt like my mother’s memory materialised and sat down at the table with us.

I remember that woman with a fondness that confounds me. I am often made aware of the loss and longing in moments of quiet reflection and during milestones that louden her absence. But then, if humans are energy, and energy is never destroyed—it can only be transferred—then, she’s still out there. I’m affirmed of this when I come across people who remind me of her, like that sweet, sweet guy. My loss then becomes bittersweet. It makes me hopeful that she continues to be with me, to show herself in the depth of these connections. Egging me on towards acceptance and growth.

Perhaps, if I just exhale and celebrate the life she lived and the love she embodied, as well as the life I live for her, I can cherish the time we did have.

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