My mother was 20 when it happened
in a dark veil, she planted a fruit of nine months
in the ground, never to grow again, and
even though she never talks about it, I can still
see the pain, sometimes in her hollow cheekbones,
frail shoulders and in every sad smile on seeing
a little boy.
The summer that was supposed to fill
my mother with cacophony of newborn cries
and shouts, only brought sadistic tune of death,
that summer I’m sure my mother must have
counted all her sins for the fate she received
and even though my mother still prays to God
every day, I doubt if she never hated Him, that
summer she must have rocked the little cot,
she still preserves like her precious, back and forth,
her mind racing likewise to every “what if”s,
my father still praises her of being a strong woman,
she never cried except for that one day, the doctor
entered her room with a grim face and empty hands,
my mother has raised her other kids to be good people,
she never poured her feelings to us, never shut herself
to dig into the harsh memories of that stillborn, but
I know her pain resides in her every nerves and veins,
she carries her tears at bay but not for once lets
waves overcome her, my mother is a strong woman,
30 years of that incidence and my mother still holds
onto those memories firmly, like it was only yesterday.
My mother must see him in every little boy,
from the park, she must imagine him as a 10 year old,
living next door, her body has shrunken like the raisin
in water, but that memory has still not faded, still not
covered a layer of dust because she goes down that
memory lane, every night, tugs at her hair, bites at
her shawl to keep from screaming, my mother is a strong woman,
I’ve never see her crying.