Mother, the Light I Lost

She didn’t knock
when entering hearts.

She didn’t wait
for anyone’s praise.

She didn’t cry
when she was hurting.

She simply smiled,
and kept going.

That was
what made her
a mother.

She wasn’t someone
you met.

She was someone
you felt.

Like sunlight
behind curtains.

Like warmth
on winter fingers.

Like prayer
in a quiet night.

And then

She vanished.

Not with a scream.
Not with noise.
Not with goodbye.

But quietly.

Like a breeze
that forgets to return.

Like a whisper
that stays inside.

Like breath
you forgot to exhale.

The house changed.

Not just in sound.

But in spirit.

The stove
is a stranger now.

The chair
still faces the wall.

The clock
ticks like it’s crying.

No scent
is sacred
like the one
left on her scarf.

No hum
haunts like hers
behind closed doors.

No silence
screams
like the one
she left behind.

Time moves.
But hearts don’t.

Time forgets.
But we can’t.

Because she
wasn’t just ours.

She was the home.
The peace.
The sky
above every tear.

Her grave
is not cold stone.

It is the place
where love lies
but never dies.

This isn’t one story.

It is the scream
of every soul
who lost
their first home.

Their first prayer.
Their first light.

She didn’t teach
how to live
without her.

Because
she never planned
to go.

Even now

She stays.

In teacups.
In folded sheets.
In lullabies
no one dares sing.

She is gone.
But she is not.

She is breath
in every
"I miss you."

She is the silence
that still listens.

When a mother dies,
the world continues.

But something
sacred ends.

And what remains

Is sorrow
that never
learns
to speak.

If your mother
still breathes,
still speaks,
still waits for you

Don’t let days
pass in silence.

Don’t let pride
replace presence.

Hold her hand
without a reason.

Listen
even when
the stories repeat.

Answer her calls
not later,
now.

Hug her
like she’s made of time
because she is,
and one day
you’ll run out.

Don’t just love her.
Show it.

Because the ones
who only love
in memories
would give anything
for one more moment
with the woman
they once called
“Amma,”
“Mom,”
“Maa,”
“Mother.”