Mother

 

When I was eight

I would climb up Lola’s mango tree

On sunny Saturday afternoons

And perch on a branch, I would look down

To see my mother’s smiling face

And wonder why she was not afraid

While Lola would go out of the house

In panic and screams.

 

When I got myself wounded

Climbing over the fence

Trying to reach my prized marble

I looked up to see my mother’s worried face.

Our neighbor was frightened

He said I might lock my jaws

And never eat again.

Mother cleaned my wound and we ate ice cream.

 

When I turned sixteen

I rode the bus to a far away city

An hour before dawn

I looked outside the window

To see her reassuring smile.

And I wonder why she’s not afraid.

When my spirit takes flight

Or hovers melancholic on the ground

People may not keep their faith

Even I don’t

But she always seem to find

That prized marble

Even when I think I had lost it

Or dropped it

On the other side of the fence

Across the hedges.

Tags: alpha, narrative poem, poetry