The passing of prominent figures and personal loss serve as a poignant reminder to appreciate our mothers and treasure every ordinary moment before it becomes a memory.
THERE are some deaths that make a nation pause. And then there are deaths that quietly reach inside you and disturb something you thought you had packed away neatly.
The passing of Tun Dr Siti Hasmah Mohamad Ali last month did that for many of us. For some, there was the sadness of losing a remarkable woman, a pioneering doctor and a figure who had touched generations of Malaysians.
For those who had lost their own mothers, however, it could feel strangely personal. For this Makcik, it brought back my own mother, whom I lost when she was only 53.
And suddenly, you remember. Not just the big things – but also the little things, especially the ridiculous little things.
Mum was never perfect
Mothers are human – they nag, they worry, they repeat themselves and they can remember something you did 20 years ago with the forensic precision of a national investigation. And yet, when they are gone, somehow you miss even the things that once drove you slightly bonkers.
You miss that voice asking whether you have eaten. You miss being told “jangan suka sangat” when you went for an outing with your friends.
You miss being fed with home-cooked meals prepared by mum because nothing on this earthly plane could outdo her.
And you miss the kitchen. Oh yes, the kitchen. Most of us did not become decent cooks through some magical transfer of maternal culinary DNA. We learned through trial, error and the occasional death stare.
Mum would stand beside you while you attempted to fry something, watching the pan with the concentration of a bomb-disposal expert.
You would proudly present your creation. She would take one bite. Silence. You looked at her. She looked at you. Then came either the tiniest approving thumb – okay, maybe there is hope for this child – or that look. That devastating maternal look that said: Are you seriously serving this to human beings?
And somehow, you tried again. Years later, you can laugh about it.
But when Mum is gone, you realise those ordinary moments were never ordinary at all. They were life.
Then something brings her back
People say time heals. It does. But time also has a rather wicked sense of humour. You can go about your life for years – work, travel, laugh, raise children, get irritated by traffic, lose your phone while holding it in your hand and yet carry on.
Then one day you smell a dish. Hear a familiar song. See a mother fussing over her grown child. And suddenly, there she is – Mum. For a few seconds, you are no longer an adult with a thousand responsibilities. You are simply her child again. And you wish you could pick up the phone.
“Mak…” Just to tell her something completely mundane.
That is the peculiar cruelty of losing your mother. You don’t only miss her on the big days; you miss her on ordinary Tuesdays.
When something wonderful happens and you instinctively want to tell her. When something terrible happens and you want her voice. When you cook something and wonder whether she would have given you the thumbs up or the death stare. Or when you simply want to hear: “Have you eaten?”
So go hug your mum
Tomorrow marks one month since Siti Hasmah’s passing. Her death has reminded many of us of the fragility of the people we quietly assume will always be there.
She lived a remarkable century. She served her country, raised a family and left behind a legacy far larger than any title could contain. But beyond the doctor, public figure and national icon was something even more universal – she was someone’s wife, mother, grandmother and home.
And that is perhaps why her passing has touched so many people. Because eventually, behind every public story about a mother, there is a private story about our own.
For those of us who have already lost our mothers, the memories will remain. The longing will come and go. The pain will soften but it doesn’t disappear completely. And perhaps that is not such a terrible thing. Maybe the ache is simply love that has nowhere physical left to go.
So if your mother is still here, please don’t wait for a special occasion. Don’t wait for Mother’s Day. Don’t wait until she is ill. Don’t wait until you have more time. Give her a hug. For goodness sake, call her; sit beside her; eat her cooking and tell her you love her.
If she gets embarrassed and says, “What is wrong with you?” Just laugh. Because one day, you may give anything in the world to hear her say that again.
For those whose mothers have already gone, we know. We know that particular silence. We know the longing. We know the sudden tears that arrive years after we thought we were done crying.
And we know that sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary day, we would happily trade everything we have for one more ordinary conversation with Mum.
One more “Have you eaten?”
One more scolding.
One more plate of her cooking.
One more hug.
Just one more.
Until then, we carry them in our stories, in our habits, in the food we cook, in the things they taught us and in the little pieces of ourselves that – no matter how old we become – will always belong to Mum.
Because when Mum leaves this world, she may leave our sight. But she never quite leaves our lives. And perhaps that is the most beautiful – and painful – thing about being someone’s child.
Azura Abas is the executive editor of theSun. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com