We picked a coffin.
Do you know what that feels like?
There's one with lace inside, as if your dead loved one would need to be… comfortable.
We chose a pillow. White, soft, absurd.
As if she would sleep.
I called my grandmother and said,
"Mum is gone."
She made a sound I've never heard. A sound no one should hear.
They said she would fly home as "Cargo 200."
She hated that word. Cargo.
As if Mum was now a shipment.
As if something so sacred could be reduced to a number, a label, a weight.
It was a strange cruelty:
She, the daughter, was a passenger.
Mum was freight.
I was in the same building as Mum. But she was on another flight.
The day they brought her home, it rained.
It wasn't a cinematic storm. Just a grey drizzle.
When she finally came home, I did her makeup.
She'd always hated when I put too much blush.
Because Mum hated looking tired. She used to touch up her lipstick even before going to the hospital. I kept it light. Peach, like spring. Like before.
I stepped into the yard.
The oak cross was already there. Her photo. That smile.
The one that meant: don't worry, everything's okay.
But nothing was okay.
She'd always said she looked bad in photos — but this one was perfect.
The music started. She heard it and collapsed.
Not her knees — not like in the movies.
But something inside.
Like a building gutted by fire, still standing, but hollow.
She wanted to scream.
Wanted to throw herself into the grave and say,
"Just a little longer. I still need her."
I saw my sister holding Dad's arm like a lifeline.
I heard the priest's voice like an echo underwater.
They closed the lid.
Mum was gone.
That was two months ago. Or yesterday. Or forever.
The house smelled like Mum.
Her slippers still by the door. Her book open on the nightstand.
That night, she touched the doorknob to her mum's room ten times.
But never opened it.
She tried to plan the wedding.
Mum would've wanted that.
She tried to smile.
She tried to laugh.
She tried to be okay.
But every moment came with an ache.
Mum wouldn't see the dress.
Mum wouldn't cry during the vows.
Mum wouldn't dance with her future mother-in-law.
But they had practiced.
They'd even picked the song.
One morning, she stood in front of the mirror.
The blonde wig was there — untouched since the day she dyed it.
She picked it up. Ran her fingers through it.
Held it to her cheek.
And whispered:
"Hello, Mum."
Not goodbye.
Not I miss you.
Just that.
Because it was enough.