You’re the reason I’m me.

My gorgeous, scatter brained, naive, innocent, huggable, fiery Tinku.

I came up with Tinku. You were so upset. You hated it. So you countered with revenge names. We acted all indignant so you wouldn’t feel bad, but we laughed about it in secret, Mix and I.

We were probably the only kids whose friends came home to spend time with our mum. And had crushes on our mum. You get that you’re totally responsible for the social misfit I am, right? What else did you expect?

My empathy comes from you. And generosity. You taught me to give without expectations. Generosity always comes back a million fold to the giver, you said, so give until your heart bursts.

I don’t know how to tell a joke. I mess up the punch lines. I get that from you. And my unadulterated glee at opening presents. Just about any present.

How you loved to throw a party. If there was no occasion, you made one up. Any excuse to get your family and your friends together. I ran in the opposite direction on this one. Yes, yes, I can tell you’re yelling. Not going to change though.

My vile temper is all you. And your quickly forgotten anger. And your bewildered hurt that the other person didn’t forget as quickly as you did.

You used to pace up and down the street we lived on, on the days I was late coming home from college. And when Dad laughed off your fears, you’d yell at him. You pushed me harder because you worried about me – I was quite a handful, wasn’t I? Your rebellious, unreasonable first born. You won this one Mum.

It took me forever to write my first piece of content because of you. I edited mercilessly. Like you would have. Because your standards were always so high when it came to me. I understand now what a compliment you were paying me.

What hurts most is that he never got to meet you. You would have been proud that I chose so well. You would have taken his side every time he and I fought. He would have teased you mercilessly. You would have adored him.

You hated being called Tinku. But you are my Tinku. You’re whom I turn to when life throws me a curve ball. And then I do as my heart says, because that is what you would have told me to do.

Tomorrow doesn’t scare me Mum, because you lived for today.

You wanted me to be someone, you always said. I am. I am your daughter. I am my daughter’s mother. I am you.

Teresa Margaret Lobo

13-4-1951 – 7-12-1997

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