Sunday, and I’m sitting at my little kitchen table, with the rain tapping softly on the kitchen window. My morning cup lingers, postcards and pens scattered around me, a card (from my pen pal) with a tiny bird sketched on a branch catching my eye. Somehow, just holding a pen and writing a few words makes me feel a little closer to family and friends I am writing to, even those far, far away.
Having lived away from home for a long time, I was used to feeling her absence. But now that Mama is gone, the absence feels sharper, deeper. Yet, more than ever, and in the strangest and gentlest way, I find her presence everywhere. In the small, random things I take time to notice, in the care she taught me to put into everything I make with my hands, and in the love that flows through those little acts. Cooking, writing, crafting… it’s all a way of sending love, a way of connecting even across miles. She taught me that love isn’t only spoken. It flows quietly through the work of our hands, into the world, into the people we care for.
So every postcard or letter I send, every word I write, is a little thread tying me back to home, to family, and to her. To my favourite people. Even here in far away Cambodia, I realise home isn’t just a place I left behind, it’s these moments of stillness, these gestures of care, and the quiet beauty tucked into everyday life. And I like to think she’s watching over me, smiling quietly, as I try to carry on what she taught me. 🌧️✉️💛
