It’s been almost a year since she left us, and some days it still feels like the world paused in that moment. I remember the quiet that filled the house afterward, a silence so deep it pressed against my chest.

And yet, in that silence, her presence whispers back to me—in the smallest things, the ordinary things, the moments she made extraordinary simply by being herself.

I miss the whistle she carried with her, soft and imperfect, threading through the clatter of dishes, the hum of laundry, the quiet corners of the house. Not a song you could find on the radio, just hers—joy in its purest form, a sound that made everything feel lighter.

I miss the kitchen alive with her hands—tortillas puffing in the pan, warm and yielding, the steam rising like whispered secrets. The aromas of caldos and guisados and fresh made salsa curling through the air, mingling with the sweet hint of something baking, a quiet promise of comfort before it was even tasted. Music always playing, the heartbeat of life being lived in every corner. Each meal an unspoken act of love, each bite a memory folded gently into my heart.

I miss her eyes at our performances, bright and sparkling, full of pride that spilled out in a voice that could not be contained: “¡Ese es mijo!” I hear it yet, echoing in the spaces where she once stood.

I miss how she embraced my father—warm hugs, soft kisses on the cheek, the way she seemed to know exactly what he needed before he even spoke it. That gentle rhythm of care made him, and all of us, feel safe, loved, and held, as if the world itself could rest for a moment in her arms.

I miss the birds, small witnesses to her tenderness, who chirped back at her as if they understood her language. Even in their tiny sounds, she found conversation, companionship, a reflection of the warmth she carried everywhere.

I miss how she tended her plants, her chilitos, with a devotion that never faltered. She watered them, talked to them, sang to them, and shared their space with the hummingbirds that hovered just for her. Every leaf, every blossom, every tiny pepper carried her attention, her love, her patience. Watching her care for her little garden was watching life itself flourish under her hands.

I miss the calls that began with a simple “Mijo, Como estas?” and stretched into long journeys of laughter, stories, worry, advice, and love.

I miss that presence. That voice. That insistence on connection.

And yet—she is here. In the whistle that hums in my mind when I fold laundry, in the scent of something cooking that makes me pause, in the memory of a hug that could quiet any storm.

She is in the small, ordinary moments, made extraordinary simply by her being. She is in the rhythm of love that never leaves, the quiet insistence that life—even when heavy—is still beautiful, still worth living fully, still worth whistling for.

I miss my mom. 

And I carry her, always, in the everyday heartbeat of my life.