The Cascading Waterfall: Mama and Me
What does it mean to hold on, even when the world tells you to let go?
How do we remember someone, not by what we’ve lost—but by what they once gave?
We remember love not just in people but in places.
This is the second in a series of stories reflecting on memory, resilience, and connection. The first was a personal recollection: a daughter remembering her childhood and the quiet strength of her father—the way love can be solid, enduring, and profoundly human.
This second story steps into imagined ground, but its roots are still emotional truth—grief.
Some leave behind sorrow.
Some, longing.
And some —
return to remember who they were before the world made them forget.
They say the cascading waterfall of Ulu Licin keeps the secret of every soul that visits it.
Wong moved slowly along the old jungle trail, her boots sinking into the soft, damp soil. It had rained the night before. The ground still held its warmth, but the air clung heavy and cool against her skin. Around her, the forest breathed—leaves rustling high above, insects chattering, and, in the distance, the low, steady roar of falling water.
She hadn't come to Beruas in over a decade.
Not since Mei disappeared.
Not since the search parties stopped.
Not since hope slipped quietly out the back door of her heart.
She told no one she was coming back. Not even her sister.
This was something only she could face.
The path to the falls had nearly vanished, swallowed by time and trees. She pressed through vines, ducked beneath low branches, and stepped over roots that pulsed faintly with the memory of a thousand footsteps.
Everywhere, there were echoes.
A faded ribbon, knotted around a low-hanging branch.
A rusted tin lunchbox, half-buried beneath leaves.
A carving on a tree trunk, small and crooked:
M + M inside a heart.
She stopped, her hand hovering over the letters. Mei and her.
She had forgotten carving that.
But the forest hadn't.
She remembered the day Mei ran ahead on this trail, the red ribbon bouncing behind her… Everything since then had felt like chasing a glimpse of a dark shadow.
When she finally reached the waterfall, it felt less like arrival and more like returning to a story she had once been part of — and had been waiting to hear the end of.
The falls crashed down in silvery sheets, casting mist into the air. Water thundered into the pool below, echoing through the clearing. She stepped closer, boots slipping slightly on slick stone. The spray kissed her face, cold and sharp. She welcomed it.
This was where they had come every year — just the two of them. Mother and daughter. Back when time felt endless.
Wong sat on a flat rock at the edge of the pool. She removed her boots, letting her feet sink into the cold water. Her hands trembled as they rested in her lap. She said nothing. But she felt everything.
She didn’t see Mei.
Didn’t expect to.
But the memories rose — not as visions, but as sensations.
A high laugh, echoing across the water.
The tug of a small hand pulling her forward.
Sticky fingers offering her a half-eaten mango.
A whispered “Don’t tell Aunty I climbed the tree.”
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, allowed herself to remember her daughter as she was — not the missing girl on a flyer, not the ghost she had been chasing — but the child who had lived. Fully. Fiercely. Briefly.
When she opened her eyes again, the mist had shifted.
Near the base of the waterfall, tucked between two stones, something caught the light.
She waded into the pool, the cold biting at her legs. She crouched, reaching for it.
A small, laminated drawing — faded and water-worn, but unmistakable. A crooked sun. Two stick figures. One big. One small. Holding hands.
Mama + Me, it read in blue crayon.
Wong stared at it. Tears came fast, surprising her. She pressed the drawing to her chest, breath hitching. Not out of sadness. But because the ache was finally unclenching — the grief no longer just an open wound, but a place where something new could grow.
The forest didn’t speak.
But it had answered her anyway.
She didn’t need to see Mei.
She had already found her.
She stayed at the water’s edge until the sun shifted above the canopy, casting gold through the trees. The mist around her began to lift. The air smelled sweeter.
She picked up a stick and began to draw in the dirt — the waterfall, the trail, the memory of a girl. Her movements were gentle, but sure.
Later, hikers found her sitting there — barefoot, drawing with her fingers, her boots set neatly beside her.
They noticed four words etched into a nearby stone:
I remember her joy.
They asked if she needed help. She only smiled and shook her head.
The wind stirred the leaves. A bird called once, then fell silent.
The mist curled, just for a moment, like arms wrapping gently around her shoulders.
And if you listened closely — just for a breath —
You might hear a child’s laughter.
Soft. Honest.
Like a memory returning home.
They say the cascading waterfall of Ulu Licin keeps the secret of every soul that visits it.
But sometimes —
If you’re quiet, and open —
It gives something back.
Not a miracle. Not closure.
But something quieter.
A loosening.
A soft place for grief to rest.
A reminder that even pain, when remembered with love, becomes part of the story — not the end of it.
And more often, places remember us too.
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