I came across a stack of old forgotten CDs some time ago.

 

And I found these.

 

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I didn’t realise I had these pictures with me all these years. Most of the time it’s easy to close my eyes and pretend she’s still here, that soon I’ll see her on my next visit home. That all I have to do is pick up the phone and I’ll hear her voice.

 

And then I remember she wasn’t there when I last came home. Nor was she there during Raya. Nor do I have her number stored in my phone anymore.

 

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I miss her so.

 

Growing up, she was always there. Her presence, her home, was a sanctuary to me. It’s my safe haven, somewhere I could always turn to for comfort. The times when life had scarred me, when my heart was tried again and again, it was her I turned to. A figure I could always trust not to judge me.

 

There was a stillness in her home that calmed me. I knew I was safe there, as if time decided to give me a break, as if I could hear grief knocking, yet it contemplated on coming back another time.

 

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I miss the afternoons on the porch, a pot of warm tea on the coffee table, the smell of banana fritters fuming the air, the wind slapping our cheeks softly. I loved listening to her stories, no matter how many times I’d listened to them before. I was always intrigued, hanging on to each word which once made up her life. Now I wonder why I never could bring myself to ask anything, poked my nose deeper.

 

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God, was I fat. Ok, off topic.

 

This was taken the day before I came here, 5 years back. Gran being the tough person she always was, I’d never seen her cried. But that day, she did.

 

She was one of the reasons to come home. She was home.

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