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Mother's Day |
I’m gone old now,
and not a day goes by
when the memories of my mother
don’t resonate as an experience
every Mother’s Day,
buying cards or wrapping gifts a week earlier
and me using my paint-colored fingers
to draw her within a heart, my heart
pulsates at her feelings of what I had done
in the few days at age 5.
I wish I could go back, go back
go right back to that age, an age
when the feelings for my mother
brimmed in her beautiful, grey-browed, eyes
amidst my boyish ego.
Still being my hero
my mother was still my hero –
with my inflated ego and all –
she’d cook to feed me like now
and as I’d move away,
breaking away from the parent stem,
I’d be a weed, a seaweed
being fed upon by clams and seahorses
like a family’s backbones
are fed upon children.
I remember circling my mother
the way she’d hold me like God.
I know I can’t repay
the hand-fetched filled bowls, honing and nurturing
because everyday’s Mother’s Day.
copyright 2014
Rishan
Singh |
