The rambutan tree was gone. The soil where Mama once knelt now lies under someone else's floor.
But sometimes, in dreams, I still see her there-kneeling by the tree, her hands pressed against the earth, whispering to something only she could hear. In those dreams, I realize something I never did as a child. The curse wasn't only on my mother, but also on me.
Even now, decades later, I still find myself visiting graves that no one else remembers. I still look for what's been lost in places that no longer exist. Sometimes I catch myself tracing the outline of old wounds, like following the map of a spell I didn't mean to inherit.
I used to think Mama was trying to raise the dead, to bring back what life had taken. But maybe she was only trying to speak to the silence that followed. Maybe that's what grief does-it binds you to an unfinished story, one you keep rewriting in your head just to make sense of it.
The older I get, the more I understand how curses work. They don't come from witches or whispered words. They come from love that refuses to rest, from memories that stay too long. They live in the things we can't name, in the people we can't stop missing.
Maybe the real curse is how grief never truly leaves. It just changes shape, finds new soil, and waits to be remembered.
Perinatal mood and grief-related disorders are interse emotional and psychological reactions following pregnancy loss-whether miscarriage, stillbirth, or other losses before birth. Similar to postpartum depression, these conditions are marked by persistent anxiety, guilt, and withdrawal.
"In the Philippines, research shows that about 16% of mothers in rural areas experience postpartum depression six weeks after delivery, yet specific data on mood disorders after pregnancy loss remain scarce. Limited mental healthcare access, cultural stigma, and the invisibility of these losses mean that countless women endure these conditions without support.
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