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Edo Somtoo (he/him/his), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

Not again, not today. It was a cold winter around the early ’80s, a time when life meant rugged determination and relentless hardship. Winters were long and bitter, with temperatures dropping so low that even simple daily tasks felt burdensome and painfully slow. I looked down at my hands, rough and reddened, frostbite a part of the routine. No matter how many blankets we piled on at night, the cold seeped in, relentless as ever.

Nothing ever seemed to come easy; ends never seemed to meet, each day a struggle just to keep us warm. When we tried heating the home, it required costly wood or oil, and we spent hours chopping firewood or patching drafts just to keep out the biting chill. Mama worked tirelessly, taking shifts in factories or on farms, or cleaning houses, all while bearing the weight of our little household with an unbreakable strength.

One faithful day, Mama came back from work. She washed up, her hands raw from the cold, and sat down on the one cushion we had. She had prepared a small meal for us, and I watched her as she carefully divided it onto our favourite plates. But she didn’t come to join us, breaking our usual custom.

I remembered the last time we visited the clinic, exactly six months ago, trudging through the cold to get there. That’s when I learned the truth: Mama had less than a year left to live. The isolation of our remote community made it harder, weeks sometimes passing before we saw a friend or neighbour, especially when the roads were snowed in. I’d grappled with fear and regret ever since, wishing she had more time.

That summer, we went shopping at our favourite thrift store. Mama picked out a beautiful swimsuit—our first in ages. She usually paid in small deposits to hold items aside, but this time, she bought it outright.

“It’s a perfect fit,” she said, smiling as she handed over the payment.

We had the best summer together that year, filled with beach days, her laughter and a sense of joy I’d never seen in her before. She reminded me of how, even as a widow after my father had died of a heart attack, she found the strength to go on alone. He hadn’t even lived to see his youngest daughter turn three.

Now here I was, sorting through her things, her treasured letters exchanged with my father while he served in Vietnam. Canada hadn’t been directly involved, but my father volunteered, feeling a duty to serve. Inside the box were tapes he’d sent home; hearing his voice now sent chills through me.

Mama gave us so much, every bit of her life and love, even through hardship and loss. As I folded the letters, I realized that these memories weren’t only remnants of a harder time—they were pieces of her, of us. We had faced bitter winters and heavy burdens, but she had shown us how to find warmth even in the coldest days. And though saying goodbye was the hardest thing I’d ever done, I knew she was still with us, her strength carrying us forward.

As I closed the box, I whispered, “Goodbye, Mama. Thank you for teaching me how to live, even in the hardest of times.”

I could feel her presence, gentle and strong, like a hand on my shoulder. I knew she’d always be a part of me, guiding me through every winter and every storm, reminding me that I, too, was made of her strength and her love.

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I’m Edo Somtoo—a passionate chess player who loves making friends and enjoys the game’s strategic challenges. With no judgment in sight, let’s connect and embark on an exciting journey together.