Preserving Old Memories

We all hope for certain things at the beginning of a new year. Some wish for beautiful moments, while others make resolutions, whether it is to lose weight, quit smoking, or build better habits. But most of us, or perhaps all of us, share one common wish: that the year ahead will bring peace, happiness, and better days than the one before.

Being no different from the rest of humanity, I wished for the same.

To be fair, the beginning of 2026 did not disappoint. My family was together, and we were travelling to another city, visiting historical places and making memories along the way. Everything seemed to be falling into place until life took a sharp turn in the blink of an eye.

When people say that all good things do not last forever, I find it difficult to argue with them.
On 10th May, 2026, in Karachi during the month of Ramadan, I lost my grandmother, someone I was really close to.
After her passing, the first few days were unbelievably difficult. The gaping wound of her absence was freshly bleeding. But my mother had it more than I did. She carried an even heavier burden. She had lost her mother.

My mother had to return to her house in Khanewal so she bought a few of my grandmother's things in order to keep them safe as a reminder that her mother touched these things and worn the clothes she brought back.
It's strange how we uselessly keep the things of the person when they are breathing and suddenly those useless things become our connection to them once we lose them.

Out of all those things, there was a white ceramic plate from my grandmother's crockery. It was simple really. No design, no colour. As white as a swan. The thing was my mother couldn't bring herself to use it , considering it was a reminder of my grandmother and we just couldn't keep it in a drawer either because it wasn't a meaningless piece of crockery like the rest of it stacked in the cupboards.

so I planned on painting it. Now don't get me wrong because I ain't a world class painter, but I believe I know a thing or two about arts. So I painted a forget-me-not looking flower on it , got a hanger for it . I attached the hanger to the back of the plate and hanged it in the corridor. Now everyday when we pass through the corridor , our eyes instinctively find that piece of crockery that reminds us of our grandmother, not with sadness alone, but with love, memory, and the quiet comfort of knowing that even the simplest things can keep a person's presence alive long after they are gone.