I lay on my bed crying holding onto my Mother’s chupa 
that always sits on my bed,
I wiped off the tears
And put on her chupa
I become my mother.
The chupa is short on me yet
It fits in all the right places
That once I called home
But it is my Mother I am wearing
It still smells like her
I smell the morning fragrance of incense
Buried in the layers of sleeves of my mother’s chupa
I feel her presence – ever so strongly
While unfolding each layer of the sleeves of the chupa.
I tightened the belt around the waist
to feel her tight hug.
I have become my Mother,
Putting on her favorite cream – Boroline
I use her favorite soap – Liril – to wash away
Past hurt and future heartaches
I wipe dust off the leaves,
Water the plants and wash the pebbles I collected from my hiking trip.
I follow her rituals
So I could be her.
Am my Mother.
The title is eponymously named after Yiruma’s piano piece which spurred the emotions of this poem.
-  Tibetan traditional dress, a chupa is an ankle-length robe that is bound around the waist by a long sash. Its upper portion becomes a large pocket for everything from everything from money to bowls.