Jumping onto her lap, snuggling and cuddling her, kissing her cheek while passing each other in the hallway, laughing at ludicrous jokes or just hugging her. I’d grown so used to these maternal gestures of intimacy as if her touch was the addiction of my skin. After all, I was a prodigy of not only her bio-genetic make up, but also a seed of her heart, a fragment of her soul. My roots generated from her soil but the rest of the plant was an autonomous structure.
While sipping tea from her cup, her eyes were like a cat; vigilant, aware yet calm and collected. She pauses and coughs. I could feel a twinge as my muscles got tense. No, it wasn’t the agony of her pain that bothered me. I was irritated by the sight of her discomfort.
She’s like a book, I thought to myself, that has traveled around the world for many years from destination to destination. The pages had become battered with time. Some words misprinted, some deliberately scratched out, a few overwritten. Original words majorly misinterpreted.
Her worried eyes fall upon me, full of lingering questions; fundamentally rhetoric. She is tired yet preoccupied with concern. She’s sick and would have given up the battle long ago, but no. To this day, she maintains the stance of a queen. She was once a lioness; who has now sought refuge in a cave, far from the caravan. She observes, as others display. Apparently deceptive as it may be, this is not what is to be called defeat. There’s a better strategy of action in store. She is preparing a weapon. Years of meticulous efforts are soon to be paid off.