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My mother came to our 26 December concert, as she always did. Since 2015, she had missed only one due to being out of town. For this concert, she alone sold 14 tickets, including her own. I’d never given her a free ticket, although she asked me once or twice. Over the years, she understood the plight of supporting what we do if you are able, so she stopped asking and sometimes even gave extra, which had helped us cover the rent for the concert venues.

She came to see me during the concert intermission. That was nearly the last time I would've seen her, except two days later, on 28 December, the three of us met for a post-concert breakdown over lunch at our favourite hot pot place. We discussed the good and the bad, but she concluded that it was our best concert yet.

After further conversation at a cafe downstairs, where it was quieter, she left us to go to her next appointment. Now, my family is not one of particular physical affection, but as she got up from her chair, she gave me a kiss on the forehead. I couldn’t have known then, but somehow I felt there was some deep meaning to her action. I smiled at her and watched until she turned the corner.

Before noon on 5 January 2023, my mother died of a heart attack in her own bed. She was 65 years old and appeared visually healthy. She looked much younger than her age and had more vigour than younger people. She had work and personal appointments planned for the day she died, the next day, and for months to come. There was no dying process to witness, no time to say our last goodbyes. She always expressed great sympathy when she heard about how people died unexpectedly and left their loved ones behind. I can very well picture how she would have reacted to the circumstances of her own tragic death, and it's comical in the saddest way.

From the standpoint of our music ventures, she was our number one supporter. She loved hearing us play, whether we were rehearsing at home or performing. For most of our concerts, she would let her phone’s audio recorder run from start to finish, then share the recordings with me. She paid for my music lessons and bought me all the instruments and music materials I dared to ask for. She wanted so much to help Aliff succeed in his music career, for many reasons.

We no longer have someone who would go out of their way to come to our concerts and help fill the seats by personally promoting the event. Playing music and organising concerts now will have a bitter taste to them. I haven't played my viola since the concert, but I will eventually. From here on, it's up in the air whether we will achieve anything great without the one person who truly understood our cause. I know people from her own field feel the loss, but the music community, too, has lost a strong ally.

There are fragments of her contribution to our lives everywhere in the physical things we use every day and the memories of the things we did together. I received her last “like” and messages mere days before her passing. Outwardly, I am no different. I’m thankful that I had so much to think about and people who depended on me right after the burial. I want to cry every time I think of her, but I know better than to let it consume me.

I remember one scene that remains distinct in my mind. My mother and I were doing a routine visit to see my aunt (mum's older sister), who was then in her early 80s. For some reason, my aunt started reminiscing emotionally about the time she was informed that their mother (my grandmother) had suddenly passed away, back when she and my mother were young adults. If my memory is correct, my aunt was at work, and my mother was studying overseas when it happened.

As my aunt talked about it, instead of the old lady I was used to seeing, I saw a young girl full of sorrow who never really stopped grieving over her mother’s death. My mother didn’t know how to comfort her; we shared a look, but we just listened to her quietly until she calmed down. In this uncanny circle of life, more than ten years after hearing that story, I now completely empathise with how my aunt felt about her mother. If there is an afterlife, may the three of them be reunited at last, and maybe I can meet them too one day.

For now, the daily struggles and battles of the living go on.