Follow the moon

On the day my Amma died, a full-moon carried me home. It might have really been a crescent, or a lunar eclipse, but I will remember it as blindingly full - a north-star, that guided me back to where I belong. I stared at it, unblinking, not crying, or speaking, as a night bus drove me to that very last goodbye.

The moon was our secret code. At a family vacation, before I went away to college, we made a pact to bounce love off its luminous edges. On long, homesick nights, I'd hug myself on the terrace of the girls hostel, pretending that she was holding me close. She was a thousand miles away, but we were looking at the exact same moon, and in those moments of crippling loneliness, that was enough.

We were soul-mates and best-friends, my Amma and I, and her loss swallowed me like an unfathomable blackhole. I may never fully emerge, but I have made friends with the vast, inky darkness - learning to navigate its perilous slopes and countless shades of gray.

One day, when he's old enough, I'll introduce my son to his grandmother, on the moon. He will smile and wave a warm hello. Then, he will turn to me and hug me with a tightness that could only be hers. And maybe, for that one, fleeting, instant, I will, once again, feel whole.