Let Her Stay

I don't remember the first time my mother held my hand.

But I remember the first time I noticed hers shaking.

It was such a small thing.

A glass of water.
Two hands around it.
A little tremor she tried to hide.

And I pretended not to notice.

Because sometimes love is not asking,
“Are you okay?”

Sometimes love is looking away
so the person you love
doesn't have to admit that they aren't.

My mother has always been
the woman who could find everything.

My lost earrings.
My school notebooks.
The dress I swore I had never seen before.
The courage I had misplaced
somewhere between childhood and becoming an adult.

She could find everything.

Except, perhaps,
the years that were quietly taking her away from me.

I noticed it slowly.

She stopped climbing stairs two at a time.

Started asking me to reach things
from the top shelf.

Forgot where she had kept her glasses
while they sat on her head.

And one evening,
while she was sleeping beside me,
I looked at her face
and realised something terrifying.

My mother looked small.

Not the woman who once seemed bigger than every problem.

Not the woman who could stand between me
and the entire world.

Just a woman.

Tired.

Human.

Growing old.

I turned away because I didn't know
what to do with that truth.

Nobody tells you
that one day your parents stop looking immortal.

One day,
you notice the silver in their hair.

The medicines beside their bed.

The names of doctors saved in your phone.

The way they say,
“Don't worry about me,”

and suddenly you understand
that you are the one who should worry.

So I began doing little things.

Checking if she had eaten.

Calling to ask if she had reached home.

Keeping her medicines where she could see them.

Pretending these were ordinary things.

Perhaps because admitting why I was doing them
would mean admitting what I was afraid of.

That one day,
I might have to live in a world
where nobody calls me
to ask if I have eaten.

And I don't know what hurts more.

The thought of losing my mother,

or knowing that she has been slowly leaving
for years

while I was busy becoming someone
she could be proud of.

Tonight,
she is asleep.

Her hand is beside mine.

I don't hold it.

I am afraid she will wake up
and see the fear in my eyes.

So I just move a little closer.

And for once,

I let myself be her daughter.

Not the strong one.

Not the successful one.

Not the grown-up one.

Just her child.

Because perhaps growing up
is not learning how to live without your parents.

Perhaps it is learning
that they were never supposed to live forever.

And still,

every night,

when I hear my mother's breathing
from the next room,

I make the same selfish wish.

Let me grow old.

Let her stay