Perfect with her Imperfection

The wind playing with her hair,

concentrated on her task, with no other care,

My old mother with wrinkles around her eyes,

is massaging her joints with mustard oil by her side.

I sit nearby absorbing the sunlight,

Watching the sky filled with colorful kites,

reminiscing the days when she used to do the same for me,

letting the memories come with the breeze.

My young mother with youth by her side

would throw me up in the sky just so I could fly.

She has nursed my wounds and boosted my pride.

So soon time flew by and now the turn is mine.

I can’t remember when the time changed,

from her carrying me to me being able to carry her,

from her scolding me to me scolding her,

from her setting my tears aside to me doing that for her.

It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?

I used to think my mother was a perfect person.

She was always smiling and people always loved her.

She could balance a job and households and had no fear.

It was only later in life did I begin to see the cracks,

the moments of weakness, the times she cried.

She had had to tackle difficult people at work

and then come home and cook dinner.

She had passed mountains, walked, run, and crawled.

By far She has managed not to fall.

She was slaying all the dragons and orcs

and all she needed was for someone to sharpen her swords.

She had been pushed down so many times

when she had wanted to climb up.

She was suffocating in this patriarchal society

and I want to breathe life into her.

A mother is filled with so many expectations, hopes, love, and care.

I wish I could give her all and more of what she has shared.

I have realized she isn’t a perfect person

but guess what nobody really is.

Yes I have been a sinner and so have you

for being the reason for her pain and tears.

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