I See My Mother

I see my mother at the end of the telephone line. Smaller than me, looking up at me with her carefully gazing eyes.
Round, skittish, swathed in old clothes from a second-hand shop; and she’s almost unloved, starved of affection and
it hurts me so much to know that her life has been like this. I come from a family who never hug or kiss, who never
touch one another. A family who will hang on to dear life until the last drop of rain or tea; until life-giving spirit has withered and faded like water on desert rocks waiting, what for? Just for someone to touch them, affectionately hug them, and now she’s old and still it seems impossible to do so as if she were a prisoner, a captive who didn’t belong to me at all; a bird in a cage, watched by a bad-tempered cat that keeps rivals away. That I am seen as a rival for her affection is ironic, seeing that she’s hardly been given any affection, and doesn’t seem to know or care anymore, having accepted that life in our family is like that. It’s ironic too, how starved of affection, her children scattered like the children of Babel and developed different languages of their own. Now all she wishes for is a card, a telephone call or a letter, for these things have replaced the hug, the kiss or the touch of a hand

Published by blackbird212012

I wish to develop as an artist songwriter.

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