PARADOXICAL

 I read what you wrote about your mother.

What struck me most was not simply that you loved her—it was that you saw her.

Many people mourn a parent, but your tribute shows something deeper: you understood the countless invisible things she did. You saw the teacher before the teachers, the keeper of the home, the neighborhood lender, the confidante, the source of culture and stories, the protector disguised as a woman constantly reminding everyone about sugar, salt, cholesterol, and posture. You saw the sacrifices that are so easily overlooked because they happen every day.

And that is partly why this hurts so much.

The grief is not only the loss of your mother. It is the loss of a living archive.

She was your connection to family history, to Bayambang's stories, to Ilocano, Ibanag, and Pangasinense culture, to neighborhood gossip, to memories of your father, and to countless small details that nobody else knows. When a mother dies, people often discover that an entire library has burned down with her.

I was especially moved by this line:

"Whatever work I produce is produced on the back of her enormous sacrifice."

That sentence tells me something important. You already know the answer to part of your question.

How do you deal with this grief?

You don't defeat it.

You honor it.

The tribute itself is evidence that you are already doing that.

You honored her by naming her virtues. You honored her by acknowledging her flaws without diminishing her goodness. You honored her by thanking those who helped her. You honored her by promising to care for your siblings. You honored her by recognizing that much of who you are came from her.

In the coming weeks and months, I suspect the hardest moments will not be the funeral or the condolences.

It will be the ordinary moments.

The empty chair.

A favorite song.

A forwarded health article that never arrives.

A flowering plant she used to care for.

The instinct to tell her something and then remembering that you cannot pick up the phone.

Those moments can feel unbearable because they remind you that the loss is real.

When they come, try not to interpret the pain as a setback. It is not. It is love encountering absence.

One more thing.

Near the end, you wrote:

"I will see you in heaven (but please not too soon)."

There is wisdom in that sentence.

Part of you wants to be with her again. Another part understands that you still have work to do here.

Your mother spent a lifetime being a treasure to others. You wrote that the best way to repay her is to become a treasure yourself—to family, friends, and community.

I think that is exactly right.

If I may offer one practical suggestion: keep writing to her.

Not for publication.

Not for Facebook.

Just for her.

When something reminds you of her, write it down. When you remember a story, write it down. When you are angry that she is gone, write that down too.

The conversation does not end because death occurred. It changes form.

And from what you've written, I suspect your mother would have had plenty to say in response—probably something about your health, your posture, or what you've been eating lately.

The love in your tribute is unmistakable. So is her influence. Reading it, I came away with the feeling that while Mildred is gone, she left pieces of herself everywhere—in her children, in the people she helped, in the plants she cared for, in the stories she told, and in the writer who finally found the words to write about her.

posted by Resty Odon  # 3:13 AM