DEAR HEAVEN I MISS MY MOM

Dear Heaven,

Can you hear me?

I am writing to you with trembling hands, a heart too heavy for my chest, and eyes burning with tears that never seem to stop. I miss my mom. Every second, every moment, every breath I take without her feels like a punishment I don’t understand. They say time heals all wounds, but whoever said that must not have lost their mother. Whoever said that must not have lived with this hole inside them this endless silence where laughter used to be.

Heaven, I am breaking. I don’t know how much longer I can carry this weight. I wake up each morning with the same crushing reality she’s gone. I will never hear her voice again, never feel her arms wrap around me, never look into her eyes and feel safe. The world feels so big without her, and I feel so small in it.

If there is kindness in you, Heaven, I beg you just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for. Just five minutes with my mom. Let me see her again. Let me touch her hand. Let me hear her call me by my name. Let me breathe in her presence one more time. I would trade anything, I would give everything, for those five minutes.

Because I don’t think I can go much further like this.

At night, when the house is quiet, that’s when the grief hits the hardest. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hoping somehow she’ll walk through the door. I imagine the sound of her footsteps, the way she used to say goodnight, the way she could make everything feel okay with just one hug. I fall asleep to these memories, and I wake up to the cruel truth they’re only memories now.

Sometimes, I cry in the shower so no one else can hear me. It’s the only place I can let it all out without holding back. The water hides my sobs, but nothing hides the ache in my chest. The pain is so raw, so deep, that I wonder if my body will ever stop carrying it. It feels like grief is tattooed into my skin, etched into my bones, carved into my very soul.

I miss her laugh, Heaven. I miss the way she made ordinary moments magical. I miss the smell of her cooking, the sound of her humming, the way her presence made the world less scary. I miss the talks we had, even the ones where we argued, because at least then she was still here. At least then, I could still reach out and find her.

Now there is nothing but silence.

They tell me to be strong, but I don’t know how. They tell me to move on, but how do you move on from the person who gave you life? How do you walk forward when your anchor has been cut away, and all you do is drift? I try to pretend sometimes to smile, to laugh, to carry on. But inside, I am still that child reaching for her mother’s hand and finding only air.

Heaven, do you understand? Do you see me here, crumbling? Do you hear my prayers at night when I whisper her name, hoping it will somehow reach her? Do you see the way I talk to her picture, the way I cling to her belongings, the way I keep her memory alive because I’m terrified the world will forget her?

I don’t need forever. I don’t even need an hour. Just five minutes. Please. Five minutes to tell her everything I never got the chance to say. Five minutes to hear her tell me she loves me. Five minutes to remind my heart what it feels like to be whole.

If you could give me that, Heaven, maybe I could breathe again. Maybe I could stand again. Maybe I could find a way to go on without feeling like I am being crushed from the inside out.

But if you cannot, if all I have are these memories, then I beg you to be gentle with me. Carry me when I cannot carry myself. Hold me when the nights are too long and the tears too heavy. Teach me how to live with this ache, how to honor her memory without letting it drown me. Remind me that she is still with me in ways I cannot see.

Because right now, Heaven, I feel empty. I feel like the world has moved on and left me behind in my grief. I feel like no one understands how deep this pain goes, how it clings to me like a shadow that never leaves.

I want to scream. I want to shake the earth until someone answers me. I want to collapse in my mother’s arms and never let go. But I can’t. So instead, I write to you. Because maybe, just maybe, if you hear me, you will pass this message along to her.

Tell her I love her. Tell her I miss her more than words can hold. Tell her I am trying, even when it feels impossible. Tell her that no matter how many years pass, no matter how far time takes me, she will always be my home.

And please if kindness lives in you let me borrow her, just for five minutes.

Yours,

A broken child missing her mother