I look over to the left - to the beige colored walls - as I see my mom sitting,
leaning on the couch, her legs folded up, with her right hand scratching her leg
and the other hand, holding a short-sized book on her knees.
And just for a moment,
she looked like a young, teenaged woman.
Instead of the usual person that I see.
The usual stern gaze with hands at her hips
The usual lips, in a grim line
The usual look, awake but deep inside,
somewhere...
sad and tired.
But looking at her now,
she was beautiful,
and looked impossibly and yet not so impossibly,
like her past self without the wild, motorcycle girl stereotype.
She looked tired, with her eyes half-closed,
trying to read for the study that we will have as a family, the next night.
Trying to stay awake, interim as her heart and eyes are already closed off and doze.
But we know that
studying this late, for her, will become of no avail
or so it is to that man.
But alas, before my mind can persuade my soul with him,
I walk over to my dear mother.
and sit down next to her and fold my left arm around her shoulders.
She looks over at me - a vintage blob among the background-
tired, and she smiles, lips closed.
Myriad of freckles among her face.
I smile back and just grip her tighter,
hug her tighter, with both of my arms now.
Her hand still holds the book as she uses her other free hand, to hug me sideways.
And I look at my mom,
who has been through a lot and will go through a lot - as she gets older-
and hug her tighter with the spirit of
thanks,
love,
joy,
peace,
hope,
and,
with strength.
No words were said as time seemed to sit still and the world...
the world who had lived through a billion years and collisions of galaxies...
crashed, fractured, split, schism, tore, and broke...
Just like that.
.
.
.
And suddenly, we were an old black and white picture, of us, in the dusty attic of a child of mine.
.
.
.
Forgotten, but not betwixt us
.
.
As a whisper flew through the attic of the old,
I love you
____________________________________________
Footnotes
Okay, I have no idea what I wrote - well I kinda do, but I don't know what my hands were thinking as it kept on writing on its own accord. But I love the production - I hope you guys do too!
7.2.21
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When the Night falls | A collective of poems
PoesíaBeing an ordinary human is not so ordinary when you have lots of pitfalls in your life especially with the fact that you have a chronic illness. But, my life is still ordinary, I guess. Constant nagging of my siblings. Constant overprotective of my...
