Sunflowers

I’ve never been much of a social media person. For years, I stayed away—watching quietly, rarely posting. But ever since Sana passed, something in me shifted. Now, I find myself posting photos of her every other day. It’s not about seeking attention or sympathy. It’s about keeping her presence alive, about holding onto every sliver of her light and sharing it with the world. Each photo is a memory—a glimpse into her life, her laughter, her essence. Whether it’s her radiant smile at a family gathering, her arms full of Holi colors, or just a quiet moment sipping chai, these images are my way of whispering, *“She was here. She mattered. She loved deeply and was deeply loved.”* In some ways, the act of posting pushes me to keep writing. I find myself journaling or blogging in her memory—transforming grief into stories, pain into purpose. Writing has become my release valve, the one place where the messiness of grief can spill out without judgment. Even now, it all still feels surreal. I wake up some mornings hoping it was all a terrible dream. But the silence in the house reminds me. The absence is deafening. Idris is in New Jersey right now, and he visits her grave every single day. He says it brings him peace. He video-called me yesterday from the cemetery. And there they were—sunflowers—still standing tall, unwavering in the breeze on her grave Sunflowers were Sana’s favorite. And it makes perfect sense. They chase the light, just like she did. Even on her hardest days, she found ways to shine—especially around children. She had this magical ability to connect with them, to make them feel seen, heard, and loved. That’s why being a teacher meant the world to her. And just yesterday, we got a message from Singapore. Sana’s childhood friend welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world. I couldn’t stop crying. Sana would have been so, so excited. She adored babies—she had this nurturing, playful energy that drew them to her. She would have fussed over every little photo, picked out tiny clothes, and probably made plans to visit Singapore as soon as she could. The thought of her not being here to celebrate this moment physically hurts. But somehow, I imagine her watching over this new baby—smiling, loving her from wherever she is. I haven’t had the strength to visit her grave yet. I want to, but something in me resists. Maybe it’s the finality of it. Maybe it’s the fear of collapsing under the weight of it all. But when Idris showed me those tall sunflowers, standing proud and vibrant, I felt something shift. They were more than flowers. They were a message. A sign that her spirit is still blooming, still sending warmth into the world. To those of you who like or comment on my posts, who quietly read my blogs—I want you to know how much that means to me. Each interaction feels like a small tribute to Sana. A whisper of acknowledgment that her life still ripples through the world. And for a grieving mother, there is no greater comfort than knowing her child is remembered. So, I’ll keep posting. I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep sharing her light—through photos, through memories, through little moments that remind me she’s still here. Because grief doesn't end. But neither does love.