By Min Zan
The sun gently crept over the horizon, casting a warm golden hue on the world below. It was a morning like any other, yet there lay an unspoken magic in its simplicity. This was the time my mum cherished, and as I look back on those mornings, I realize they were the tapestry of my upbringing.
The memories of those mornings flood my mind like a gentle stream, bringing with them a mix of nostalgia and warmth. My mum, a beacon of love and strength, found solace in the quietude of the early hours. She believed that the essence of the day was captured in its beginning, so our mornings became sacred rituals.
In the stillness of dawn, the house echoed with the rhythmic melody of her movements. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, intertwining with the subtle scent of her favourite jasmine-scented candles. It was a symphony of comfort, a prelude to a day she approached with unwavering optimism.
The kitchen, a place of alchemy for my mum, transformed into a haven of flavours and aromas. She moved with a grace only a mother possesses, each gesture an unspoken expression of love. The sizzle of bacon, the crackling sound of eggs in the pan, and the gentle hum of the coffee machine were the notes that composed the overture of our mornings.
Seated at the worn-out kitchen table, I watched her with a sense of admiration. Her hands, weathered by the passage of time, moved effortlessly, a testament to the countless mornings she had orchestrated. There was a tranquillity in those moments, a shared silence that spoke volumes. It was in these simple acts of preparing breakfast that our bond was strengthened, a connection that transcended the mundane.
As the sunlight filtered through the curtains, it painted a mosaic of memories on the kitchen floor. The morning chatter of birds outside and the distant rustling of leaves became the background symphony to our intimate breakfast ritual. My mum believed that nature had a way of weaving itself into the fabric of our lives, and those mornings were a testament to that belief.
The breakfast table was not just a place to nourish our bodies but also a space for nourishing our souls. Amidst the clinking of cutlery and the occasional laughter, my mum shared stories of her youth, of dreams pursued and challenges overcome. It was during these moments that I saw her not just as a mother but as a woman with a rich tapestry of experiences, a life shaped by the ebb and flow of time.
Her eyes, pools of wisdom and kindness, sparkled as she recounted tales of her own mother – my grandmother. It was in these stories that I found a deeper understanding of my roots, a connection to a lineage of strong, resilient women. Through her words, my grandmother, though long gone, became a living presence in our mornings, a silent participant in our shared history.
Now dancing on the walls, the morning sunlight cast a gentle glow on the family photographs adorning the kitchen. Each frame encapsulated a moment frozen in time, a memory etched in the annals of our family history. There, in black and white, were images of my mum as a young woman, a bride, a mother – a journey encapsulated in the frames that bore witness to the passage of time.
The ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway seemed to synchronize with the rhythm of our mornings. My mum often remarked that time was both a constant companion and a silent witness to our lives. As I grew older, I began to understand the profound truth in her words. Those mornings, once a timeless continuum, took on a fleeting quality, a reminder of the transience of life.
Despite the routine, each morning was unique, a canvas painted with the brushstrokes of shared moments. My mum, in her infinite wisdom, recognized the importance of embracing the present, of finding joy in the ordinary. It was a lesson she imparted with grace and one that I carry with me as a precious inheritance.
The afternoons would unfold, and the demands of the day would beckon, but the mornings remained an anchor, a sanctuary of love and connection. The mundane act of breakfast, once taken for granted, became a ritual imbued with significance. It was a communion of hearts, a sharing of lives entwined in the delicate dance of everyday moments.
As the years passed, the kitchen table witnessed the evolution of our lives. Birthdays celebrated, milestones marked, and tears shed – each moment etched into the very essence of that sacred space. The morning rituals, once a constant in the ever-changing landscape of life, became a source of solace during turbulent times.
Then came a morning that altered the course of our rituals. A morning when the kitchen felt emptier, the sunlight less vibrant. My mum, the orchestrator of our mornings, had bid farewell to the world, leaving behind a void that echoed with the silence of loss. Once a haven of shared moments, the kitchen became a repository of memories, a sacred space untouched by the hands of time.
In the stillness of that kitchen, I found myself grappling with the paradox of grief – a heaviness that coexisted with the lightness of cherished memories. The breakfast table, now adorned with a sense of absence, became both a shrine and a refuge. The photographs on the walls, once a celebration of life, now served as portals to a time when her laughter filled the room.
The morning sun, though unchanged in its brilliance, now cast shadows that mirrored the complexities of loss. The familiar sounds of breakfast preparation were replaced by the echo of solitude. Yet, even in the absence, my mum’s spirit lingered, a gentle whisper in the rustling leaves and the soft hum of the coffee machine.
The kitchen, once a stage for our shared symphony, became a canvas where I painted my own memories, a continuation of the legacy she had left behind. In the act of preparing breakfast, I found a bridge connecting the past to the present, a tangible thread that wove our stories into the fabric of time.
As I sat at the now solitary kitchen table, I realized that the essence of those mornings had transcended the physical space. It lived on in the recipes passed down through generations, in the laughter that echoed in the walls, and in the resilience that defined our family. My mum’s teachings, once imparted over breakfast conversations, now echoed in the silent conversations I held with her memory.
The kitchen, once a backdrop to our shared moments, became a sacred space where I communed with the echoes of the past. The morning sunlight, a gentle reminder of the continuity of life, illuminated the path forward. In the remembrance of my mum, I found not only a source of solace but also a reservoir of strength to navigate the uncertainties of life.
As I move through the days, the mornings remain a constant touchstone, a bridge that spans the realms of memory and reality. The rituals may have changed, but the spirit of those mornings endures an eternal flame that flickers.
With profound sorrow and longing, I once more hear my mother’s lament. I persistently lift my cell phone and dial my mum’s number that was recorded in it. Some might argue that it is melancholic to persist if one desires to. However, until there is no response, I will be dialling that number whenever the memory of my mum overwhelms me.
(To my late aunt, who adopted me as her son)
