By Likitha Kujala
mother held me in her womb.
mother breastfed me for 10 days short of 2 years.
mother grew my hair, she braided it.
mother told me stories on nights i couldn’t sleep.
mother was young yet her entire world revolved around me.
mother yelled at me when she was angry,
mother laughed with me when i was happy.
somewhere along the way,
i realised that mother would always be with me.
mother and god, she said,
would always be with me.
but mother left for god,
leaving me.
when i write about mother now, i see.
her stories were about her life before me.
the story where she fell in love with plants,
the story of the beloved sister she lost.
the story of her home in india,
the story where her parents didn’t love her.
but they all had the same ending.
the ending where i saved her.
but there is a truth i couldn’t tell her before she passed.
the truth where it wasn’t i who saved her,
it was her who saved me.
it was the love in her anger,
the way she felt responsible for my mistakes.
so mother,
i don’t just love you.
i would’ve brought the moon down to earth for you,
i would’ve stopped the same earth from spinning for you.
all the things i would do,
all the things i said,
all of them true.
mother, how i wish you were back,
you have no clue.
