I wrote this on August 20th, 2025. A day after my mom's funeral.
I feel like I bottled up my feelings—what I felt during my mom’s funeral.
Grief really does come in layers. I tried to notice so many things that day—how the forecast warned of a heavy thunderstorm, the scent of the air, how Bulbul—my mom’s cat—stayed two steps away from her body. Bulbul didn’t cry, didn’t move, just sat there like a guard who lost her queen. Animals know. Sometimes I think she understood more than I did, the way she refused to leave Mama’s side, like even she was waiting for her to wake up.
Yesterday morning began with light rain, the kind that cooled the air and wrapped us in a strange calm. By midday, when we expected the sky to break open with thunder, it didn’t. Instead, during her burial, the weather turned gentle. The sun shone softly—not harsh, not burning and the wind moved around us like a quiet embrace. It felt as though the sky itself had been softened for her, as though Allah was showing mercy, giving her a farewell wrapped in ease. Some say the weather is a witness, and that day it felt like the earth and sky were agreeing, she had left with husnul khatimah.
On paper, in theory, you know it’s the best for her. She no longer carries the unbearable pain. We no longer have to stand helpless, watching her body surrender piece by piece. Faith tells you this is mercy. But the heart keeps bargaining, whispering just one more day with her, one more morning where she’s healthy and laughing.
I knew her time was running thin, so I tried to hold on with whatever I could. I recorded her laugh, her in videos, her smile, even her scolding and yapping at me. I took more photos than usual. Like a thief stealing seconds from time, hoping it would make goodbye easier. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
On August 19th, I woke at 2.30 a.m. to my aunt’s phone call: “Kak, ke rumah mama sekarang ya.” I didn’t think too long. I woke my husband, packed my laptop, two office outfits, four sets of lounge wear, and two dark abayas with khimar. Somewhere deep down, I already knew, yet I kept my optimism above the water, thinking I would go to the office from my mom’s house. Almost at the gate, I asked my husband why we were going at such an odd hour. I pushed away the thought of death, but it pressed harder with every unanswered call to my brothers. Only when my sister-in-law finally answered—her voice thin, the background full of strange noise—did I know.
When we arrived, the house gate was wide open. It was still before fajr, yet the house was already full of people. That’s when it sank in. Mama was gone. I went straight to her room, tried to shake her awake, but all she was… radio silent. And I still whispered shahada into her ear, as if sound could cross the barrier. I kept saying it because I couldn’t accept silence as the only response. I wanted to believe that if I said it enough, it would carry through, like knocking on a locked door until someone opens.
Even in that silence, there were questions. Administrative details. When will she be buried? Where? What time? Which package? How much? It felt obscene—this cold choreography of money and signatures happening while my mother’s body was still warm. Package A, package B, as if I was picking out a sofa, not laying down the woman who gave me life. I hated it, but still, I did it. Who else would. Grief makes your throat choke, but still you’re asked to speak, to sign, to pay. Even as tears blur the page, you have to keep your head clear enough to decide.
I tried to recite Surah Yasin beside her body, but I kept losing my place—around the 30ish, 40ish, and 50ish verse. People kept coming in, greeting, offering words that barely landed. I kept thinking, how can words land when the ground itself just split beneath me?
I didn’t want to leave her alone. I kept whispering shahada in her ear. I whispered when guests came telling her there are so many people honoring her. I whispered when I asked her permission to bathe her, to dress her for the last time. I whispered when I soaped her skin, when I rinsed her hair. It was like muscle memory—things I used to do when she was alive—except this time, silence answered me back.
Her body had already grown stiff, less than six hours after she passed. They say it happens faster with illness. I noticed her fingers, her toes—pale, yellowish. That image doesn’t leave you. Neither does the sound of soil hitting her body six feet under. I cried until my throat burned. I didn’t want to step away. I wanted to be the very last one at her grave.
It was my first time bathing a janazah. To clean her one last time. To kiss her cheek one last time. To smell her scent one last time. And still it didn’t feel like the last time. My hands kept thinking there would be another. I poured water over her hair, noticing the surreal shift: the harsh green-yellow wall and fluorescent glow of the hospital lights replaced by the cold water in the bathing room. It all went too fast, as if time itself refused to slow down.
It also my first time performing Shalat Janazah and that was for my mom. I couldn’t stop whispering in her ear, “Asyhadu alla ilaha illallah, wa asyhadu anna muhammadan rasulullah.” I knew her transition from dunya to barzakh would be heavy. The malaikat would ask, “Man Rabbuka?”—and all I wanted was for her to be able to answer right away. My whispers were my desperate way of guiding her, even though I knew she was already beyond my reach.
I had been reading Perjalanan Ruh by Ibnu Qayyim, and the knowledge never really put me at ease. If anything, it made me more restless when I thought of my mom. To imagine what a soul experiences at the moment of death—the questions, the passage into the grave, the waiting—it felt unbearable to picture her going through it alone. They say the righteous soul returns or kembali ke rahmatullah—to the mercy of Allah—but my heart still clung to fear. I couldn’t stop thinking, is she safe? Is she in peace?
That night, I found myself replaying every detail, wondering: did Mama truly have a husnul khatimah? I started to trace the signs, almost like checking boxes one by one. She had pain, yes, but she was never delirious and she remained aware of her prayer and of those around her. She prayed Isya right on time, as soon as the adzan came. She passed away in her sleep, with such ease, her face calm, as if she had simply drifted into a long rest. She had sweat on her forehead and I was wondering why she sweated (and it turned out one of the sign of husnul khatimah, insya allah). At her janazah prayer ba’da dzuhur in the middle of Tuesday, more than seventy people prayed for her, insya allah granting her the syafaat promised by the Prophet Muhammad saw.
And then I thought of her last days, how even when her body was failing, she still wanted to give. In that single week of going back and forth to the hospital, she gave to everyone: the nurse, the security guard, the cleaner, the catering staff, the emergency team, even the woman who pushed her cart. She was restless, not because of her illness, but because she worried she couldn’t continue her Jumat Barakah—her Friday charity ritual that she had kept since 2021. She couldn’t cook anymore, so she wanted to share food at the hospital instead. Until the very end, she wanted to give. And maybe that was the clearest sign of all—that she left this world with her heart still turned outward, still thinking of others, still pouring whatever she had into sadaqah.
I hate the fact that she asked me during her stay at the hospital, “Kak, kakak ikhlasin mama ya.. Mama udah ga kuat..” and instead of comforting her, I joked, “Iya mama, emang mau kemana sih?”Although earlier that day, after her doctor said that the cancer might be back and she told me, "Kita usahakan semampunya dan sejauh yang mama bisa ya, Kak."
I also hate the way my feelings catch me late. At the funeral, I cried, but mostly when people hugged me and told me stories about her kindness, her patience, her goodness. My own grief was delayed, scattered—I kept analyzing like a forensic, trying to piece the chronological order, trying to piece together a perfect response, connecting dots that maybe never belonged together. I thought if I could arrange it neatly, like a file in a drawer, the pain would shrink. But grief doesn’t do neat. It leaks. It shows up when you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re standing at the sink, when you’re waiting for the kettle to boil. It’s as if my heart needed time to catch up with what my eyes had already seen.
And grief doesn’t ends in the graveyard. It finds you in the smallest places.
My husband said it struck him in the kitchen. During the funeral, he went in to make tea. He rarely ever stepped in before—unless to drop a plate in the sink or to ask me what I was cooking. Tea and coffee were Mama’s language with him. She always made sure he had his hot tea or strong black coffee, without sugar, exactly how he liked it. That day, standing in the kitchen alone, it hit him: she would never walk in again, never ask “Bang Amed, mau teh apa kopi?” never place a cup in front of him. For him, grief arrived not at the grave, but in the absence of a cup of tea.
Another layer peeled when I woke up with a hollow in my chest, searching for her and letting myself cry for over two hours. That night, I slept in her bed. My sister and aunt couldn’t even enter her room—it was too heavy for them. But I wanted to be there. The blanket still carried her warmth. The pillow still held the trace of her hair. The air still tasted like hers. It was my way of holding onto what little proof remained that she was here.
Where others felt fear in that room, I felt longing. They said it unsettled them. I wished instead that she would appear to me, even just once. I wanted to hug her, to say how much I miss her, to apologize for the sharp words, the careless moments, the times I didn’t soften myself for her.
The last time I talked to her it went like this: “Ma, kakak pulang dulu yaaa, nanti hari Kamis kakak kemari lagi..” and she replied, “Kak, itu bawa makanan atau apa deh dari kulkas sama freezer.” I really don't like to know that even while she was bedridden, she still worried her daughter would go hungry. And I kissed both of her cheeks for the last time.
Even now I can still hear my aunt’s voice from that night, sharp in my ear, and the buzzing of 200 unread messages piling up. The world kept moving, people kept calling, but I stopped. How cruel is that—when you just lost the person who was your anchor, your roof, your whole foundation, the whole center of my universe, and somehow life dares to go on.
If I could, I would sit beside her again and say what I never said enough, Mama, thank you. For the laughter, the scolding, the thousand ordinary ways you loved us. For every plate you washed, every prayer you whispered. For the quiet care that filled our lives without us even noticing.
She was the compass I kept checking, the place I measured myself against. When everything fell apart, she was the ground under my feet. She never doubted me, never trimmed my wings—she let me wander, but I always knew she was solid standing there ready to catch me up, like a tree that doesn’t bend no matter how strong the wind. That kind of love is rare. That kind of love is home. She would always have my back no matter how upside down the world turned out, she was my home and she ill always be my home.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering if every door that opened for me, every stumble I survived, was because of her prayers slipping my name into her sajadah and her sujud every night. And now what? Who will carry my name like that when I don’t even remember to carry my own? How will I live my life without that shield? Will everything still be okay? But knowing her, I plant my faith in this—that her prayers will always walk beside me still, in every step I take, in every breath I have, and in every decision I make.
And for the last time, I’d tell her this, Ma, mama adalah hadiah dari Allah paling indah, yang terbaik buat Kakak. And even if I lived a thousand lives, in a thousand of alternate timelines, in every single one I would still choose you—over and over again—to be my mother.
And so I turn to prayer:
O Allah, forgive my mother. Have mercy
on her. Pardon her and overlook her faults.
Honor her resting place, widen her grave, and wash her with the purity of
water, snow, and ice.
O Allah, make her grave a garden from the gardens of Jannah, and protect her
from the fire’s pit.
Gather her with the prophets, the steadfast, the martyrs, and the righteous —
the best of companions.
O Allah, let me be a righteous child who never stops praying for her.
Carry to her the reward of every word I recite and every deed I offer,
by Your mercy, O Most Merciful of the merciful.
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