The mother i never forgot

It was a cold, silent night in the old city of Kunduz. No stars above, only shadows dancing with the wind. I was wrapped in an old, rough blanket, barely six years old. Winter pressed its breath through the cracks in our clay walls. And my mother... that night, she was leaving.

I didn’t know why she had fallen so ill. I didn’t know what death was. But I remember her voice that night—gentle, fading, like a candle losing its flame. She whispered:

“My son, if life becomes hard, don’t break. I’ll be with you… even if you cannot see me.”

I kept looking into her eyes. I was too young to understand that these were goodbye words. Morning came. Her body was still. Her breath was gone. Her hands were cold. My uncle came and gently lifted me from her arms. I didn’t cry. I was silent.

Years passed. I grew older. I went to school, later to university, but my mother was always with me. Not in body, but in memory. Every time someone spoke of their mother, I fell quiet. Every time a teacher asked, "Where is your mother?" I just lowered my head.

One winter night, years later, I opened an old chest. Inside was her faded shawl. I held it to my face and closed my eyes. The scent was still there, and so was she. In that moment, I could feel her arms, hear her words, as if time hadn’t moved at all.

From that night, I began writing her letters. Every evening, I would take out a piece of paper and write. I didn’t know if anyone read them. But somehow, I believed she did. I would tell her about my day, my struggles, my little victories. It became a habit, a secret ritual of love and remembrance.

I passed through many seasons of life: work, hardship, loneliness. But her voice always returned to me. That sentence she spoke with her last breath became the light that carried me through every tunnel.

When I had a daughter of my own, I gave her a piece of my mother’s shawl. I said, “This carries your grandmother’s scent. If you ever feel lost or hurt, just breathe it in.” My daughter didn’t understand, but when she’s sad, she brings it out. And I know… something in it comforts her.

Sometimes I sit and wonder what kind of grandmother she would have been. Would she sing lullabies? Would she braid my daughter’s hair? Would she cook the same warm rice and lamb she once made for me, humming quietly in the kitchen?

Memories come back not in order, but in fragments. The warmth of her lap, the softness of her voice, the way she would place her hand over mine during storms. I remember one rainy evening—before she fell ill—she picked me up and held me by the window, letting me count raindrops as if they were stars.

One day, I heard the cry of a child on the street—a small boy, lost and cold. I picked him up, gave him an embrace. In that moment, I felt my mother holding him through me. I understood then: love never dies. It just changes form.

I don’t have many photographs of her. Just one: faded, slightly torn at the edges. She’s sitting on the ground, holding me in her arms, smiling the way only a mother can. Sometimes I talk to that photo. Sometimes I tell it things I can’t say aloud.

When I feel overwhelmed, I place that photograph under my pillow, close my eyes, and I remember her voice. I remember how she told me to be strong. I remember how even in her weakest moment, she was comforting me.

Even now, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night. I stand by the window, look up at the sky, and there’s always one star—always. I whisper softly:

“Mother, you’re gone, but I speak to you every day. You still give me life. You are still my greatest love.”

This story doesn’t need a continuation, because a mother’s love never ends.

To the Woman Who Gave Me Everything

You never asked for much—just a smile, just peace in our home. But you gave me everything. You carried me before I had a name, fed me before I could ask, and loved me before I even knew what love was.

Your hands, though tired, were always soft when they touched my face. Your eyes, though heavy with sleep, always watched over me at night.

You taught me strength without shouting, patience without words, and kindness by simply being you. You are not just a mother—you are a quiet miracle walking beside me every day.

Today is your day, but no single day is enough to honor you. Still, I write these few lines, not because I can ever repay you, but to say:

Thank you, Mother. For every breath, for every hug, for never letting go—

Even when the world tried to.