I Miss You

Dear Mom, It has been ten years since you left us, but I never stop thinking about you and miss you even more when every day passes by. I want to share you the joy I had over the past ten years; I want to present you the food I cooked; I want to hear your comfort for my sadness; I want to tell you everything (well, almost everything) happening in my life. Mostly, I want to hear your voice and see you smile again. I miss you, mom. You taught me the meaning of love. You taught me how to love others. You taught me not to give up and be determined no matter how difficult things might be. You taught me how to build a strong character and be myself. You taught me how to carry on daily lives when resources are limited. You taught me how to make delicious meals for the whole family with whatever we have at home. You taught me how to be caring and nurturing. You taught me how to make you proud. You taught me how to live life to the fullest. You taught me what unconditional love means. I’m sure you know that I didn’t mean to upset you when I did something stupid. I’m sure you know that I didn’t intend to make you cry when I was stubborn and disobedient. I’m sure you know that I attend a university far away from home not because I want to be far away from you. I’m sure you know that I love you dearly even I didn’t say it as much as I should. I remember how proud you were when you bragged about me for making family dinner at the age of nine. Actually that was precisely the motivation for me to do it—to make you proud and to reduce your burden. I remember how you prepared our siblings with big lunch boxes, but you ate the simplest and the least nutritious meals day after day. I remember how content you were when you cooked a feast for us every Chinese New Year’s eve. I remember your laughter and joy, as well as your suffering and sorrow. I remember you, and everything seems like just happened yesterday. Not long ago, when I was watching Hirokazu Koreeda‘s film "After Life" (ワンダフルライフ | Japan 1998) once again, I was asking myself: "What would be the single memory in my life that I would choose to take with me into eternity?" Immediately, I chose that single memory: That was a cold winter night in Harbin, when I was about six or seven year’s old. It was warm and cozy inside the room, I was in my tank top and little shorts. There was a power outage, we gathered around the table to be close to the candle light, because we all had a music sheet for a song in our hands. All of us, you, dad, me, and my brother, were practicing to sing that song. We were singing together as loud as if we were in a KTV room. The little candle flame danced with our singing full of joy and happiness. Although I don’t remember what song we were singing, I do remember that moment vividly and I still can hear your beautiful singing voice. From time to time, I hear your bright voice at my ears as if you were still broadcasting news at the radio station. Perhaps, indeed you have been talking to me all these years. Dear mom, I have read this poem many times when I cannot bare the pain for not being able to talk to you. Today is one of those days that I cannot hold back my tears. Let me read it one more time. Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am in a thousand winds that blow, I am the softly falling snow. I am the gentle showers of rain, I am the fields of ripening grain. I am in the morning hush, I am in the graceful rush Of beautiful birds in circling flight, I am the starshine of the night. I am in the flowers that bloom, I am in a quiet room. I am in the birds that sing, I am in each lovely thing. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there. I do not die. I know, you are not there, because you are with me deep in my heart, every single moment. Mom, I love you, and I miss you. Update: Just after I wrote these words, I heard the news that my mom’s third brother passed away today—on the 10th anniversary of mom’s passing. Rest in peace, uncle.