It's been six years since I arrived in this country. It now feels like home. I no longer dream of Karachi or even miss it. But my heart aches when I think of my mum, living bravely and by herself in a big empty house.

When Abu died about 12 years ago and I moved here 6 years ago, my brother insisted Ammi come live with him in the USA. She replied, 'I don't want to wash dishes for the rest of my life.'

Instead, at the age of 66, she learnt to bank by herself, handle the finances and go about business that she had previously left to her husband of almost 40 years. There's nothing remarkable about any of this, but I find her fierce independence despite her fears very inspiring.

I miss her immensely right now - I haven't seen her for two years. I miss how she unpacked my suitcase for me when i arrived in KHi and her stitching an imam zamin for me before I left. I miss the way she would have played with my boys.

I miss sipping lemongrass tea with her. I miss the smell of coconut oil in her curly, soft hair. I miss the green-blue veins on her hands and the bright brown mole on her cheek.

I miss how she feels cold even in the Karachi heat, her slim arms and legs and the way she ties up her braids on the top of her head Heidi style as she delves into her gardening.

I miss her namaz, her many dua books that she skims through because she knows them by heart, how she holds them to her eyes to pray for her vision. I miss her chowki, her sajdaygah, her tasbeeh which she goes through even though she's having a full-blown conversation around her.

i miss the way she watches Geo on maximum sound, i miss her scolding when i lower it. I miss how she refuses to eat take away because it's to expensive but can't resist taking at least ten bites. I miss how she loves cheekoo and hara chanaa.

I miss sitting on the bed with her, sinking on the side Abu slept on, my heels rubbing her foot as we sip one cup of hot tea after another. I miss her old shalwar kameezes she wears as sleeping suits - worn out through constant washing. I miss her fingers, short and stocky.

I miss her garden and her room, the chipped wooden lamp on her side table and the glass of water always hidden with a crocheted cloth cover. I miss her bottles of perfume, seldom opened because 'khatam ho jaein gee.'

I miss her collection of fragrant candles and her love of fairy and solar lights. The gnomes and wrought iron lady birds in her garden. I miss our nightly walks round the colony, the obligatory jet sport every night, holding packets dripping with juice all the way home.

I miss her outrage at my ridiculous opinions, her approval of everything my daughter does, i miss her wisdom and also her superstition. I miss all of her.

I will end with a picture of myself and Ammi, where we share a shawl and listen to Qawwali and jhoomo the night away till 9:30 after which we both need our respective beds.