Mother by R.P.Sawant


Art by Mary Cassatt

Mother,

There is a war raging 

in our own backyards .

The dead bodies of your 

carefully cultivated marigolds 

and petunias lie scattered in the wake 

of its careless plunder. 


Mother,

our old house burns gently 

in its slow blaze like water 

that you used to berate me for leaving 

on the stove for far too long until 

it simmered itself away. 


Mother,

I miss the sweet smell of bread,

the kind that made you want to leave 

everything and watch it bake ,

for now I can smell only havoc 

as it screams with the pressure cooker,

I miss snuggling into your arms 

as the afternoon napped around us ,

for now , I can feel only water ,

water that floods around me drowing 

our living rooms and our memories 

our halls and our histories .

Somebody must have left the taps open.


I am sorry, Mother. 

Sorry for I no longer know 

how much of it I can salvage anymore.


Mother 

But they are saying that tommorow 

tommorow there is a Dawn incoming 

maybe tommorow I can find dad's old tools and maybe not with the same 

memories but maybe tommorow 

I can build this house all over again.


Until then, Mother

as this afternoon burns around us 

can I snuggle into your arms 

one last time 

again ?

 
 

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