She loved unconditionally

Ihave walked into this home in Ratnapura where my mother lived all my life only to be greeted with such unchallenged, undiluted, unconditional love. No matter who I had become over the years, to her I was beautiful. I was her child. She didn’t see the ugliness, the scars, the darkness I saw in myself. I did wonder often “how come?”

She said we are all products of our restlessness that stirs in our souls, which eventually becomes our search in life, and the real purpose why we were born. In that strife lessons are learned, and the scars are only a testimony that you have begun that journey.

She was quiet, and private person, a creative artist, who adored solitude. Her appreciation for art, and language reflected in the home she created for us.

The colours she used were bold and vibrant, a stark contrast to her gentle personality. The poetry she framed, and hung around in the house were the in print of the DNA she was made up of. Her appreciation for art, and language carried her through difficult times, and it was the pen she used as a medium, and a weapon to express her deepest pain, and her fury especially when my brother was murdered at a tender age of 29.

My late father had great strength of character, and was a king amongst men when it came to ethics. He was like a huge tree that gave shade to many who were weary. Most felt safe when around him. No matter where he went, or what time he got home, all he wanted at the end of the day was my mother. She was there for him 24/7 ready to love, and welcome him home. It was my mother who nurtured this massive tree, and watered the roots in the sunset. He basked in her love, and more importantly trusted her love for him with child-like faith. She was an awesome woman. A woman who knew how to love her man.

My mother had great patience. Her ability to bear up withered me. She dared to love deeply, even if love destroyed her. She forgave the unbelievable. She prayed for better times even if the tunnel never ended. She chose optimism to realism, and she hoped in the face of uncertainty, and difficulty. “The audacity of hope” President Barak Obama’s words are the most fitting to the sprit in which she hoped to the end. Was she weary? How hard was it to be her I still wonder.

My late brother, and I were blessed to experience the essence of a mother’s love so precious, and the strength, and fearlessness of a great father. No matter how dark the night is the path I walk is lit by lamps, which are the beautiful memories I hold of my late father, mother, and my brother.

Eventually, death is not when a loved one dies. It is when love dies…because I say to them, “glad you are finally together, I have a bit more to do for you here, and I will see you soon”.