For Daddy, Audrey, and Baby Russell.

Mama was never at my graduation ceremony. She was gone before I even entered uni.

Illustration: a young man in a white T-shirt sings from a hymnal beside his mother, who sleeps in a hospital bed.

At the hospital – every night before I went home, as a routine – I would open my secondary school chapel hymnal to softly sing a hymn to her before going home. It always relaxed her for a moment.

I remember the very last night we saw her conscious. She was lucid but weak. I sang to her like always. Kissed her on the forehead before Dad and I headed home. We were emotional. She promised to sleep over in my room when she got to come home.

Illustration: a dim hospital corridor; a young man with a backpack and his father walk toward a glowing exit sign.

That particular night, as we were leaving the hospital, I told my dad that something felt off. I wanted to stay over if I could, but I had an 8:30 am class to get to.

Illustration: a yellow taxi outside the hospital entrance in heavy rain, a father and son inside.

The next morning, the hospital called. The nurses couldn’t wake her. I rushed from school to her bedside to see her.

Illustration: the son, his father and a woman sing from a hymnal beside the mother in her hospital bed.

She looked like she was sleeping but breathing heavily and gasping for air. I opened the hymnal which I kept by her bedside, and led everyone there to sing hymns to her. At first, I had this glimmer of hope that she would stay and that she was fighting to be alive.

Illustration: a father and son embrace in a hospital corridor, the father weeping.

For much of the day, Dad sobbed hard in my arms, repeating: “God, please please please give us a miracle, by Jesus’ stripes we are healed.” But deep down inside, as her primary caregiver, I already knew she would not make it past that day – 25th October.

Illustration: family and friends sing around the hospital bed as a tear runs down the mother’s cheek.

So I closed the hymnal, and started singing Christmas carols to her instead, as a promise to her that she will be part of our Christmases going forward. My aunties and other family friends sang together with me.

Illustration: close-up of the mother’s face, eyes closed, a single tear on her cheek.

The doctors told us that she wouldn’t be able to respond but might be able to hear us. As we sang Jingle Bells and We Wish You a Merry Christmas, a tear rolled down her cheek as it etched itself deep into my memory.

Illustration: a young man stands alone in the rain on a lamplit street, head bowed.

That day, I emptied my tear ducts for the rest of my life. Nothing since would come close to ever hurting me this much. I have never cried this hard ever again. Perhaps befittingly so, it rained the whole day, until she was gone at 10:25pm.

Dad was completely caught off-guard by Mama’s death and went into a heavy depressive state after the funeral.

There were days where I would come home from school to an entirely dark house, where he was slumped in an armchair, alone and still in his work clothes, quietly weeping. I forced myself to never appear sad in front of him.

So, I kept things business-as-usual at home, and kept up with Mama’s household routines.

Illustration: her framed portrait on a desk beside a computer, warm light through a window.

I remembered Mama’s promise to sleep in my room when she came home – a promise she wasn’t able to keep – so for many years, I kept her funeral portrait in my room on my desk, as a reminder that every good thing in my life doesn’t stay.

Illustration: a young man in a Melbourne University hoodie looks up at a full moon above campus buildings at night.

And when I moved overseas and didn’t take her portrait with me, I would always look up at the sky whenever I missed her, and think that wherever she was, both of us must be looking at the same moon. And that she must be among the stars in our vast galaxy.

Over the years, I looked forward to those nights when she visited me in my dreams. I would wake up calling “Mama, Mama”, my pillow soaked in tears.

The dreams didn’t come often, but they always ended the same way, in tears and brokenness.

I’d always whisper, “Thank you, God, for giving me these dreams to remember her by. I have nothing else.”

Illustration: a tearful army cadet crouches in dense wet jungle, rifle in his arms.

There was once when I was an army cadet, we were taking shelter in thick vegetation waiting out a long thunderstorm. I fell asleep under a bush in my Gore-Tex jacket as the heavy rain assaulted us. It was cold and I dreamt of her. I woke up shivering as the rain camouflaged my tears and washed that memory away.

Since that fateful, rainy day – every Christmas has meant pain, peace, avoidance and abandonment all at once. Which, as a child, I learnt to mask with strength.

Love disappears without warning. Vulnerability leads to pain.

All these years, I’ve tried to be kinder to myself and to heal. But the root of all suffering is attachment. I have realised that the suffering is mine and mine alone to bear.

So, I can only press on, as always, with this lonely, profound sadness.

Photograph: a smiling woman rests her hands on the shoulders of her son in graduation robes, who holds flowers and a diploma in front of a stone cloister.

With AI, I was able to create this 画面*, so that a wounded child could graduate with his mummy.

*Translation: Image or Scene

Photograph: a graduate in robes stands between a young woman and an older man on a lawn in front of a university building.

To every good thing. To every person I’ve known and loved: Hold your loved ones close, and don’t squander time because it’s so cruelly short. May you find peace and joy.

May your heart be light.

Look, Mama… It’s raining again.

Merry Christmas.

The Christmas Graduation

Alvin Li-Wei Lim

With illustrations by GPT-5 and Gemini