My Mother .


We are breathing miles apart,
But I still remember my mother.

I remember her,
not like I remember all those people
from years ago.
People who come and go.
I remember my mother,
like I remember my alphabets.
And like I remember my numbers.

I remember her beautiful smile,
and every freckle on her face.
I remember the golden earrings
that were so dear to her,
she’d never change.

I remember her voice;
her voice that changed from
anger to love in moments.
I remember her beatings,
the way she would express her annoyance,
trying so hard to hide her disappointment.

I remember her fingers,
that were slightly bent,
because there were stitches on them.
I remember every place she had hurt herself.
The stitches on her arm,
and the one on her forehead.
And I remember every story
behind them, and the pain that I had tried to feel
when she recounted them to me.

I remember her warm hugs,
and the smell of her skin against my nose.
The kind of fragrance
that I couldn’t find in a bottle.

It comes back to me sometimes,
on lonely nights, when I’m tired of life,
and I walk out to the balcony,
trying to picture her in the black of the sky.

It comes back to me, when I realize how
every sight in the world I’ve seen,
and every person I’ve made memories with,
could never match that feeling
I used to get, lying on my mother’s lap,
wishing I could perfectly fit in there again.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s