The year was 1995, on the 28th day of May.
The day I first grasped the reality of my existence.
You were anxiously waiting on the other side as I wailed, cooed, and terrified of this strange new world.
You held me in your arms, taking in how tiny I was, giving me unconditional love, allowing me to be part of the family.
From that day, you held my hands as I grew, becoming the person you envisioned me to be.
How mighty you were, a fact that I haven't realized until now.
Carrying the burden of being both the mother and father of your children and then also to your grandchildren.
No one is like you, Ah Ma.
The year was 2020, on the 28th day of May.
The day of your burial.
The day we laid you into the ground.
That day was a day I have planned weeks ahead to celebrate my birth with you.
It only takes one night for everything to change.
How funny fate was, the day of my birth was also the last day of me seeing you before you lay.
Years of memories, yet I would never feel that was enough.
How I wish you can come back to us, even if it was just for one night.
It was hard for us to accept the fate that you are gone.
It was even harder for us to understand that it was time.
You aren't here anymore to share our joy nor we could ever hear your laugh.
You aren't here anymore to hold us during our sorrows nor we could wipe away your tears.
The year is 2021, on the 28th day of May.
My wish for heaven to have a phone never fades.
365 days have passed, and not a single day goes by without you being in our hearts.
One thing has changed, however.
We now understand that you aren't truly gone, you are still alive in our hearts.
In our memories, in our dreams.
The day we laid you into the grounds, beneath the soil.
It was the day you find peace.
You may not be here physically anymore.
Not by our side, reaching out to us when we fall.
Not by our side, being proud as we rise.
Fear not, Ah Ma.
We will be fine.
Please don't worry about us.
Rest well.
Love, Kay Kay