Mummy
There were
those times,
when I
remember;
how she
used to read to me.
Bedtime
stories at night,
so I could
linger,
and fall
soundly asleep.
And then
she would,
sometimes,
talk about
herself,
and she
would say,
that her
life was sad and quiet,
filled with
patient moments.
The joy of
having us,
yet, the
sorrow of being lonely.
And we used
to play cricket
straight
home from school,
she would
yell out her heart,
to come
inside.
And wash
ourselves.
Have some
biscuits and tea,
and spend
time on homework.
Then, if we
did get angry,
and say
something nasty,
she would
still keep cool,
and talk
about other things,
that faced
us tomorrow;
And we
would make her laugh.
Her life of
course, as we know
has not
been quite as peaceful
as she
would have wished;
And when I
gaze upon
our present
days,
with
moments of memories
from those
times;
it seems
like a wall
with graffitti
all over,
and some
patches of white
where the
paint has still not smeared;
The dust on
the streets,
the hoot of
the owl,
a bat
flutters over,
while a
double decker bus,
passes and
screeches.
It still
seems so beautiful,
the times
we then shared;
Back home
at Bamba, with Mummy.
There are
those moments
I cannot
forget.
Like
raindrops on the grass,
butterflies
on the flowers,
the cukoo
always wailing;
Shades of
blue skies
in colors
and hues,
evenings of
fragrance
wafting
across the roofs.
While I
listened to music
and sang in
the bath,
the sound
of running water
watering
the plants.
And those
luscious ripe fruits
that hung
so low,
that we
relished so sweetly,
while life
unrolled swiftly.
We’ve come
thus far,
and shes
hit the nineties.
Is it that
short,
to have
lived and loved?
The end
will surely come,
death will
kick open doors.
While we
wait in silence
and surely,
so does she,
with the
same patience,
she used to
show us then.
I wish I
find the time,
to see her
once more,
so I can
tell her again,
that I am
so thankful;
And how
much I love her,
for her
every single way.
The only
single one,
who loved
us most of all,
seeking no
return;
No, nothing
at all.
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