The Elusive Assembly

"You are formally invited to The Assembly." Intrigued, I continued reading on. "We hold an exclusive assembly once every few years, and only those who have experienced grief or loss can attend. The coordinators are anonymous, and no one outside of the invitation list can know of this." I remember thinking how mysterious and rare this opportunity was, and decided I would attend the assembly. 

Two weeks later, I arrived at the assembly location. Invitees were instructed to sit in a circle. There were ten people, and I was assigned to seat ten. Later, a masked up personnel joined us and began sharing the rules of this meeting. We were told to share our stories of grief and loss chronologically, after which all invitees and Mask Guy would vote for which they thought was most heart-wrenching. The "winner" would get a chance to go back in time for 24 hours and spend a day with their loved one, and deliver a final goodbye. After several episodes of tears and whimpering, it was my turn to share my story.  I began: "I have not had the courage to speak to my mother for years because of a grave mistake I made, landing her in the hospital. I was so caught up with my work that I forgot to give her her heart medication, causing her to have severe heart complications. I have kept my apology letter in my drawer for three years. On the day I planned to reconcile, the hospital called to inform me that she was in critical condition. By the time I arrived at the hospital, it was too late. The unopened letter, the unsaid words, have been haunting me ever since." Following my speech, there was a solemn moment of silence with pitiful and sympathetic eyes falling in my direction. I was not sure if my story stood out because of the recency effect or because of how inconsolable it was, but I ended up receiving the most votes. Before I knew it, I entered a trance-like state and found myself transported back to 13 July 2023, the day my mother passed. 

It felt so surreal being able to go back in time and start all over again. I couldn't help but notice there was this holographic countdown timer following me around, reminding me of my limited 24 hours for this day. Knowing how the day would end, I immediately took my apology letter and rushed down to the hospital the second the timer started. The minute my mother noticed my presence, I could feel the pure joy emanating from her eyes, and something told me the apology letter that I have kept for so long didn't matter to her. I slowly approached her, sat down beside her bed, and gently brushed the hair off of her face. Having this kind of intimacy with my mother, being able to corporeally feel her and get up close enough to see the wrinkles on her forehead, were things I never imagined I would get the chance to do again. Her voice cracked as she asked me "how have you been, my little girl?" Being 27 years old and having my mother call me her "little girl" triggered an unstoppable steam of tears, yet at the same time, healed a part of me I never knew needed healing. For the next few hours, we talked and caught up on each others' lives as if we never had that separation. Hearing my mother's voice and seeing her live and in action again was such a rare and enchanting moment; I truly treasured every waking moment I had with her again. Although I was filled with utter bliss being able to reconcile with my mother and provide solace in her final moments, I was tormented knowing I would eventually receive that same message that my mother would be in critical condition, and I would have to come to terms with her death once again. Nevertheless, I tried to live in the present and relish every second that I had with her again. No combination of words could explain the pure bliss and healing this opportunity had brought me. Knowing my mother still sees me as her "little girl", knowing that she never once blamed me for my mistake, lifted the weight I had been carrying on my shoulders for the past three years. However, as I had expected, the machines my mother was connected to started beeping incessantly, brutally signalling that my time with my mother was up. Doctors rushed in and told me to leave the room, but shortly after invited me back and broke the news to me. Oddly, this time round, I did not shed a single tear and there was no ounce of regret or guilt lingering within me. I felt sad, but also light; liberated.  

As I made my way home from the hospital, I looked back on this surreal and unexpected moment of reconciliation. The Assembly had changed my life - being able to go back in time and make amends was transformative; mending deep wounds I never thought would heal. I felt free again, emotionally and psychologically. The parts of me I had lost were found and I was whole again. I was unable to fathom how such an event could possibly even exist, and how lucky I must have been to be the chosen one. These things don't come by easily, or even at all. 

Ever since I received that invitation, a part of me hoped to receive it again. Each year I would eagerly and anticipatorily open my letter box but the letter never came. I suppose that such magical and wonderful opportunities only come by once in a blue moon.       
 
 
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