Since my mother passed away last January, I find myself driving to her favourite spot on the beach, parking my car, getting out my folding chair, and facing the ocean just the way my late mother liked to sit.
I remember how she used to tell me stories from my early childhood, stories that I barely recalled until she lovingly reminded me.
One of her favourites was about how I would pretend to give my older brothers 'injections' using matchsticks, proudly announcing that I would become a doctor when I grew up.
We will then have popcorn and head home just before sunset so we don’t miss the prayers. On her last day, my mum suggested that we go to the beach, but I apologised, as I had a clinic that afternoon, promising we would go the next day. I did not know then that the promise I made so casually would become a quiet sorrow.
I would carry long after she was gone. The following morning she wouldn’t wake up from her sleep. My attempts to resuscitate her failed, and by the time the ambulance arrived, she was long gone.
These memories surfaced as I read the Japanese novel 'Before the Coffee Gets Cold' by Toshikazu Kawaguchi.
The book revolves around a small Tokyo café where customers are given a chance to travel back to a precise moment in their past, under strict rules: they cannot change the present, they must sit in a specific chair and they must return before the coffee gets cold.
Despite these limitations, each person who travels back discovers something meaningful, such as closure, forgiveness, or a final chance to say what they wished they had said.
As I read through its pages, I kept thinking of my mother. What would I do if I could sit across from her one more time? I wouldn’t try to change fate. I wouldn’t ask for explanations or miracles. I would simply sit beside her, listen to her stories again, and keep the promise of that last visit to the beach.
Psychology tells us that, although we know that death is inevitable, nothing can prepare us for the overwhelming impact of our parents’ death. We experience several thoughts and feelings, and the body reacts with physical symptoms.
Emotional and spiritual issues arise as you ponder the meaning of life without your parents. There were so many things you did together or had hoped to do with them, and now we have to accept a new way of perceiving the world.
Whether you were close to your parents or not, their death shakes up your family structure and affects your perception of yourself as a member of the family. No matter what your age or how long you have been independent of them, you may find yourself longing to be someone’s little girl/little boy again. Or you catch yourself thinking, 'No one will ever love me or take care of me like my parent did.'
At a personal level, I learned that grief has no expiry date and that we grieve differently, so we should accept it and cherish the memories before they fade.
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