I wait in anticipation,
for god's own diet.
It must be on its way- she must be on her way.

Somewhere along the hall,
my entire diction is placed and dusted as a prized possession-
For she knows my Atwood from my Manto.

And ever so often,
my resting abode feels like the comfort of a thousand feathers.

I wonder how she does that with two paper-thin sheets, one cushion, and a single blanket.
- Must be her attempt at magic.

In any case, my mother is an artist.
The one that hides in plain sight.

Her audience today, is old and grey
Some having lost the sense of sight even!

But there she goes, holding an invisible paintbrush.
“So what if I was married into a house devoid of art?”

She says,
The world is her canvas.
And myself? all her colors.