Country of Origin: India
My garden of wonders bloomed with an amalgamate of
pink roses with overlapped thick velvety petals, and
herbs – chives, basil, fennel – common points for pollinators every
morning when I bid her goodbye before school bus on leathery wheels
that did back and forth for gaining orientation direct towards
the church on Fridays for prayers to Mary and her child who
had a relationship dearest rested upon tenderness and mercy. I
traversed with her too under polka dot umbrella and with raincoat on
accidental open-day meets during wet north-west monsoons, when
I circumvented my path instead of ascending the curled stairs.
Rama would roll in, a bundle of all cotton, silk, georgette clothes, with
her brown hands decorated with red mirror bangles that broke
time after time due to thrash in a nasty steamroller wedlock that
never made her a mutineer, but instead suppressed her vital force. Her
will saw dips on an electrocardiogram displayed on squared checks, not
a notion gladly tackled, but remains in subconscious displayed via weedy actions which
transforms into a chap-fallen identity abnormal for novice who
takes unsystematic treats on laxity and surmises nothing but judgments
coming as unbidden visitants in black gowns with purdah falling on features.
Songbirds did not recognize and flew higher to break free at least.
Not me in need of solid earth to certify belonging of courage here only.
As I look back on it, I could not step up there. My heart looked
for objects to insert and stop instantly the yelling, for numbness undo
paralyzed body full of sweat blisters on my broad forehead lowered,
with weariness out of shouting in reply to her abhorrent weeping. I
never could crawl on all four limbs, losing conviction in balance, this
unbridled anxiety lowering my posture pressing me to the ground. Thud.
She closed her eyelashes the moment blood rushed out of her minor nose, then.
No therapy I need. I rebelled in light blue uniform open frizzy hair for
the flawed emotional control would come again as ghost threatening.
Confronting my deformed motherhood was not capable to pull out
her from the cemented graveyard held by a chiseled stone by
the name of Miss Lily Grantham.
Thank you to Christina Lee for their inspired edit on this piece and everyone else on the Mental Health team.
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