There are hollows in our conversations,
Where there used to be filled with your name,
What are you medications?
When is your next appointment?
How do we handle your treatment?
There are hollows in my planner,
Where I used to write ‘dialysis’ three times a week,
Or where I crossed over that word, sometimes sister took over,
Where I put reminders of my night shift at hospital, because I am that forgetful,
Where I wrote your appointment with doctors.
There are hollows in our home,
Where there used to be your bed, your dressing table and your wheelchair,
Where there were tables and chairs to ease your way in and out,
Where everything is arranged so you were comfortable.
There are hollows in our spaces,
The front passenger seat of the car where you used to sit,
The towel rack where we hung yours,
The end of the dining table where you used to sit.
The are hollows in my habit,
I used to check on you when I woke up at night,
I used to greet you in the morning with my silly pantuns,
I used to ask what you want for your next meal,
I used to tell you stories that you are probably tired of hearing.
But there is no hollow in my heart,
Where the memories of you reside,
Your name imprinted in gold letters,
To remind me the power of du’a from a daughter,
You will forever be the one and only I call ‘Abah’,
May we meet again, I pray, forever happy in jannah.