Send me happily. No crying.
28 January 2022, early morning
My mom wrote down all her last wishes on sheet of paper from a cheap notebook back in the summer of 2018. I’m not sure why anymore. We had come back from a big trip to Australia months earlier. She had “beaten” her stomach cancer, for now. It seems like a random time. But the note exists and it opens with “Send me happily. No crying.” An unreasonable ask, perhaps, but she hated those Sri Lankan funerals with wailing relatives.
She wanted to be cremated within the day. And so the last two days have been a blur and a race. Now that’s done, what comes next? I don’t know.
It’s hard to think about a person in the past tense. To write about them as someone here before, but not now. I’ll have to write more later. When I have the words.