“Touch has a memory.” ― John Keats
I don’t remember when I slept well last time. My mom smiles, “Welcome to motherhood.”
And I just stare at your sleeping face; I wipe your mouth with the corner of this soft cloth,
and put gentle kisses on your cheeks.
Twice. Every time.
“Can you believe we created her?” He says.
I nod in disbelief.
Time is passing like a heavy storm. Each day a new beginning and a new discovery too.
I am learning to understand you. Just like my mother did, in each phase of my life.
I try to know her more now, the way I try to know you:
two breath-taking women of my world.
Meanwhile the memories keep piling up in the basement of life.
Some faces slipping off, yet their stories haunting like ghosts of dark nights;
I am tired of surviving this weirdness.
I am tired of carrying everyone’s heavy baggage.
I wanted to leave some memories like how they leave an old country.
I wanted my story to shut, and open, like the wings of a butterfly,
like the shiny rainbow on a flowing waterfall, quick then ephemeral.
They say the super moon will shine again tonight.
Maybe I will take you to see her shine. Maybe we both will shine in her shrine.
Somewhere around the ‘hood a leaf is falling gently on the ground,
twirling in the air like liquid gold,
somewhere it’s raining and the wind is sweeping those fallen metaphors.
Within these four walls, I am here, nurturing a new life, living in all of it,
without wasting any time.
“It’s easy,” they say,” you can do it.”
In my mind, probably I am not looking for an easier world.
I just want life to move. Like this Sunday afternoon of autumn. Evenly. Slowly.