Missing Everything
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**Trigger Warning: death, mourning**
The sun was shining outside. The grass was not exactly green, but with a little imagination, one could be forgiven for thinking it was autumn or spring. There was no sense of winter, and certainly no sense of Advent. Summer or winter — she didn’t really care. She had nothing to look forward to in either season.
She sat in her small flat from morning until night, waiting for each uniform day to end. In the morning the nurse would come, offering a few minutes of dressing and words exchanged. The same happened in the evening, day in and day out for over two years.
In the beginning, the children came on weekends, at least after her stroke. They had wanted to put her in an old people’s home, but she vehemently and successfully fought against that. She was still able to move the left side of her body and walk around the house with her walking frame.
Then she could no longer cook, so the children arranged for Meals on Wheels to come to her home. They organized everything for her. She didn’t not like it; at least someone came around for lunch and offered friendly conversation. It let her days have a bit of variety again.
Yes, the children were great. They always sorted everything out and made sure she was comfortable. However, they were just so busy with their stressful jobs and their own families that they hardly called. The grandchildren were also all grown up and didn’t have time to visit grandma.
During this special, pre-Christmas period, she thought so much of the past. Especially her husband. When she thought of him, a smile would appear on her face, and for a brief moment she was happy. They’d had a wonderful marriage and he’d loved to carry her in his arms as they danced.
He’d died five years ago, suddenly and without any apparent illness. She never moved on. In the first few days, the children stayed with and comforted her, but they couldn’t really understand the sudden loneliness after forty years of marriage. And now she was sick herself.
Her thoughts went back to when the children were small and they celebrated Christmas together as family. The house held a lively atmosphere, its memories heartwarming and cherished. Now it was quiet and bleak.
Last year, the children visited on Christmas Day. They arrived in the afternoon and had to leave in the evening.
The next day they went skiing, leaving her alone again. She didn’t know what would happen this year. They hadn’t told her yet.
Well, it was only the Second Advent. She still had enough time to imagine that things could be as they used to be. A few tears ran down her face, but she hadn’t forgotten how to dream yet.
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Souad Zakarani
Souad Zakarani is a poet, writer & Literature-translator from Morocco. Her works have appeared in many Anthologies worldwide. Her poems, short stories, Essays & Articles can be read in a variety of international publications, including WELL READ Magazine, Hooliganstreetpoetry, Revista Sofón, RESEARCH PLANET Journal & others. In 2025, her poem “Weiss” is shortlisted for Ulrich Grasnik Lyrikpreis.
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