dear mom,

I remember looking forward to this day. A few days after you were gone, I thought to myself, I can’t wait for it to be ten years from now, because it wont hurt as much anymore. And in some ways, it doesn't. It’s hard to admit, but we do get used to everything in the end, even not having the people we love most in the world around us. But I think about you every single day.

It was ten years ago, the last time I saw you. I’m not sure I remember your voice anymore, I don’t think I remember your smell. And I know it doesn’t really matter, but the thing is, it does. When I watch a video of you and you say something, I find myself surprised, not recognizing your voice.

I’m sending you this letter out in the open, over the airwaves, through a blog. It would’ve been really funny trying to explain to you what a blog is, just like I spent two days teaching you how to send an email. It’s not because I want to share this personal moment with the world. It’s because I want the world to know who you were. Who you are still. I didn’t understand it back then, I couldn’t understand what you were going through. I was so young even though I thought I was so grown up and already knew the world… I knew nothing, and I was selfish, because even when you were the one who was dying from three tumors growing relentlessly in your head, in your lungs, in your liver, I still thought about my own suffering more than I thought about yours. I couldn’t understand how scared you must’ve been, to know you were dying. How alone you must’ve felt. How terrifying it must be to know you will not see your children grow up. That your son who was only seven, might not remember you.

I once asked you if you were scared. You said “I’m scared for you.” Because that's who you are. And I still learn from it, every day.

You’re the kind of wife, who when doctors told had a life threatening disease, your first instinct was to turn to your husband and ask if he was okay. You’re the kind of mother who asked me if you could remove your wig, because it was itching you, but you wanted to make sure it didn’t bother me to see you without hair. You’re the kind of woman who consciously opted for no chemo, so that instead of living an extra few months but being sick all the time, you would live a little less, but be able to enjoy it with us. The kind of mother who has the courage to put her children around a table and tell them that she may not always be physically present, but that she would always, always be around us, no matter what.

And the truth is, even though my faith has gone up and down and sideways in the last few years, that I barely believe there is anything out there, that I am as skeptical as they get, I have no doubt that you are around me somehow. Your words, they resonate in my mind as if it was just yesterday that you said them to me. Everything you taught me, I use in ways I could have never imagined. And I try my best to pass them on to Soraya and Karim, because they weren’t as lucky as me, they didn’t have as much time. But even though they had you for so little, you left your mark on them too. I look at Karim and I see you in his eyes. I look at Soraya and I see you in her smile. Your three children have your name tattooed on their bodies --because we take you everywhere we go.

There are days where not having you here is torturous. Yes, it’s true, I miss you like hell when it’s Christmas morning and you’re not there. You were the only person I thought about the day I graduated from Columbia. And it kills me to know that you will not be there the day we get married, or the day we become parents. But I would give up all these days, gladly, if I could have you on all the other days. The days when I’m sick and I feel like crap and I want you to be there so you can hold me and nurse be back to health. The days I’m in total quarter-life crisis mode, and I am dying to talk to you about it. The days I screw up. The days I’m scared. The days I fall in love and the days I get my heart broken. The days I look at Soraya and Karim and I don’t know how give them enough love from you and me. And mostly, the days I’m happy, and all I wish is for you to be part of that happiness.

But I haven't shared any of that with you in ten years. The last time I saw you, in that moment, in that hospital bed, I thought you were already gone. I looked at you in so much pain, and all I wanted was for you to be at peace. I held your hand, I told you I loved you, but I truly thought I was saying it more for me than for you. I thought you couldn't hear me, but I was wrong. Even at your worst suffering, in your dying moment, you found a way to come back to the surface, and to give me one more proof of unwavering love. I will never forget how you suddenly came back to your body and reached out for me, consciously grabbed my hand, even though you had not an ounce of energy left in you, you put it on your heart and I could feel every beat. I’m still alive, is what you trying to tell me. I love you too. Even though you couldn’t say it, you found a way to make sure I knew. The love you gave me was so big, so strong, it has kept me going for the last ten years. Even in your death, you know how to make me feel better. Because that’s who you are.

And yes, I want the whole world to know how proud I am to be your daughter. That I have a mother, who despite the distance between heaven and earth, still manages to help me through the day. I’m so grateful for you, and all I can hope for is that wherever you are, I can make you proud. But I miss you so much and no matter how many words I write today, I’ll never be able to convey it.

I love you.