Like Mosaic Tiles

Shards of glass,
Scratchy and unsmooth
Fragmented into asymmetrical shapes
Smashed without an obvious purpose
Lying still on the ground
A huge array of varying materials
Diverse hues in all possible colours
Small, large, long, thin,
Like broken marble and uncut diamonds
They stay silently, unaware
What a mess it seems, no direction
No reason, meaningless
Individually insignificant like a pile of broken parts
Yet one of the most
Beautiful types of art
Found in the museums, palaces and sky ceilings
Are precisely made with these
Fractions of a whole
Taken from everywhere
Incomplete and fractured
Randomly chosen and found in the same situation
Somehow placed side by side
In the large canvas
Unsure of how they fit in
Yet they all do somehow
Because there is no single spotlight
But a common theme spun with a single thread
Of unity and delicate homogeneity of differences
Curious angles different sizes
Wavering degrees of positioning
Placed adjacent, one next to the other
Whole in their incompleteness
Fitting in where otherwise they did not
Like broken bits of a jigsaw
Overlapping where the other lacks
Up close it makes hard work
To understand their meaning
Their purpose uncertain in the myopia
Of short-lived vision
Yet tilted back
Pushed a little further away
Viewed like the earth from the moon
The sum of the parts
Make an equation fall into place
The sea of fabricated materials
Follow a pattern
Of their own
Their beauty lies in their imperfections
Breathtakingly captivating
The ultimate result is theirs to own

No reservations

Watching her cry, I feel the weight of her family on her shoulders. A daughter’s anguish from watching her mother’s pain, manifested in a body connected to countless tubes in the Intensive Care Unit.

“Love one another,” she says, because you never know when they will not be there anymore. It is true, so true, and in a flashback of what happened two years ago, I remember so vividly the fear of not being able to say the things we have always felt but kept in our hearts, the traumatic thoughts of not having the chance to see those you love before they fall into unconsciousness, the fact the they do not have the knowledge that you love them so. Suddenly, the importance of work crumbles in the face of such adversity, worries about other people’s impressions and a façade to upkeep seem ridiculously silly, and all you hope for is to be able to hold their hands and tell them you love them.

Each week passes by, an oblivious rollercoaster ride of deadlines that fade into nothingness. Some days you look back at the past few months and wonder what happened during that period of time; the days seemed to have started and ended without any meaningful memories created in between. We spend hours hunched at our desk in the office, worrying about the wording of an email, which may not even be looked at for more than 10 seconds, and we stress over the promotion that might skip us by. Home becomes just a place for bed and breakfast and we don’t even realize how much has changed in the life of our loved ones. We count the pennies but miss the big bucks; we fight many wars and win them, but we lose the battle. Myopia seems to have overtaken many of us, literally and metaphorically, and short-sightedness has led to many forgetting the most important bigger picture of life, the things that matter more than those that don’t.

A conversation at the Cheesecake café with a great friend of mine kept me thinking, a thread of thoughts started not only recently. Decisions we make on a daily basis, based out of fear? Or boldness to try something new, just because we desire to? A year off work seems like a huge decision to make, just to pursue a dream, or longing, when that is the same amount of time since the start of my working life. Yet experience for me enlarges the spectrum of my understanding, makes me rooted but gives me the power to believe, and shorter-term gains diminish in light of these. Encouragement from friends who have always chased their dreams, persistent in their beliefs as well as mine, that makes me feel so much lighter.

It’s like that with so many things. Planning is great, it helps you have an idea of where you want to go; but the magic is in the boldness, of creation of doing, and of trying even if you don’t know if you might succeed. Baby steps make the journey, and building a foundation in our relationships doesn’t take place overnight on occasional birthday parties; the pretty card in the mail once every half a year doesn’t suffice if you want to be a part of their lives as much as they are a part of yours. I realize that making the effort consistently, not only when you feel like it, nor only when things crop up, is what builds the unshakable base which holds us even as we shake.

Tell them you love them, say it as often as you feel the need and want to, do it unabashedly, boldly, without reservation. Get up and do things you want to do, now, not tomorrow, not next year. Don’t hesitate anymore. In Nike’s famous household slogan – Just do it.

To never forget

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget.”
-Arundhati Roy

One of the signature quotes at the end of email messages, one of the quotes that always stun me in an absolutely refreshing way.

It is so easy to become immune to the violence and distress that once so thoroughly disturbed us during our daily news reading. It is so easy to frown and wrinkle our noses in disgust at the dirt-filled rat-infested conditions which the beggars live in, and then to walk on buy into the comfort of the five-star hotel, and out of sight, the poverty temporarily goes out of mind. It is so difficult to imagine and witness the pure joy on the faces of the little ones who spend their whole days playing with a simple ball, a game we take for granted, a game we are bored with, and it strikes us so hard to see these young children with more joy than us with all our expensive ostentatious goods. It is increasingly hard to appreciate beauty in what we do and have, when we have become shaped to complain without batting an eyelid, and to shout at what is not going well. We have became what we eat, and in this world of fast food, fast service, we have lost our patience for even the simplest things, we do not see anymore than we do not get nourished. It shocks us to see a woman with cancer encouraging her loved ones not to be upset, when really it should have been the other way round. We have become so accustomed to the grind of life which tells us money and status rule the world, that people high up on their pedestals should be treated like gods while poor people and those junior staff should be disregarded, ill-respected and not worthy of our time. We forget that sometimes certain things are just as they seem, and we spend precious amounts of time complicating two-dimensional matters when we should be spending more time solving and analyzing the world we live in. We become masks of insecurity mingling at events for the sake of networking, when actually we just want to spend some solitary time to gather our thoughts. What are we rushing to, where are we colliding headlong into? Why do we look away from that which is not pretty, nice or even just normal? Why do we forget so soon the things which have taken place? Why are we shocked when things which have been building up ages suddenly happen? What do we need before we can remember?

India’s tragic love story

India is full of beautiful palaces, monuments and buildings that spring up unexpectedly in an old town, next to a a dirty river, in the valleys.

In a history of the rise and fall of empires spanning across centuries, where the mughal rule expanded into India from central asia, the birth of one of the wonders of the world brought India into the limelight, putting it on the same stage as China, Peru, Brazil, Egypt, Jordan, Rome and Mexico. In a sad but romantic history of the dynasty of the six mughal emperors, a tale of love and the struggle for power produced a grand, beautiful tomb acclaimed by the whole world, a majestic construction built on the foundation of promise and loyalty.

The fifth mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, had many wives, but the third wife possessed most, if not all, of his affection. In a short marriage life of just 19 years, Mumtaz Mahal (whose title signified chosen one of the palace) bore him 14 children, the last of whom caused her to die in childbirth. Of these 14 children, 8 died, and of the remaining 6, there were 2 girls and 4 boys. Out of the 4 males, the last and youngest of them all eventually caused his father the greatest harm and injustice, and he became the sixth ruler of the mughal dynasty, ending the reign which lasted almost two hundred years.

Beyond the line of six descendants which she left behind, Mumtaz’s death brought down her husband, Shah Jahan who retreated into a year of mourning and shed all royal clothing to be dressed in mourning clothes. A year after her demise, he embarked on a massively planned project to build her a monument, as he had promised on her deathbed, and in the next 22 years, oversaw and specified the details of the white marbled tomb renouned among all the world. With marble inlay decorating the white pure marble, and phrases from the Koran inscribed as borders on the magnificent structure in Agra, the outcome of the project was awe-inspiring and breathtaking. Even till today, the Taj Mahal’s mist shrouded outline leaves you amazed, and from a distance, it looks like a dream turning into reality.

A very faithful Muslim, Shah Jahan’s devotion to Islam has been blended and crafted seamlessly into the monument, and the dome-topped wonder silences everyone who lays their eyes on it, even if they are not Muslims. The entrace of the Taj opens to a perfectly symmetrical garden, which is partitioned into four equal squares by water streams and fountains, like the garden of Eden as described in the Koran. The peace and serenity emanating from the surroundings of the Taj settles upon you as you walk closer to the structure, each step showing you yet another beautiful angle, whose symmetry and glazed perfection stops you in your tracks, and you unconsciously reach for your camera in an unsuccessful effort to capture the aura and presence of the Taj. One of the most photographed objects in the world, nothing can beat seeing the Taj in person. The story behind and around which the Taj has been wrapped is beyond the physical presence, it is the spirit of the emperor and his wife which spills forth romance and inspires its viewers.

Out of greed and desire to rule over his own family, Shah Jahan’s youngest son with Mumtaz killed his three elder brothers, then imprisoned his father under house arrest in the Agra fort, where he gazed at the Taj for the eight years during his arrest. So much tragedy, so much pain, yet so much love.

Just like many parts of India, and its endlessly fascinating aspects, the Taj is symbolic of India, of its history and its beauty. And unexpectedly, I seem to have fallen in love with some parts of the vast and rich heritage of this nation.

The heart of poverty

Standing in the busy street, walking by the cars bustling beside you, sitting in the comfort of the hotel-chauffered car, or squeezing among three others in a rick, one thing that hits you as you travel about India is the immense poverty in which so many Indians are trapped, and other than which they know nothing else.

Everywhere you go, you see men, women and children running, walking, strolling about without shoes or slippers, their feet bare on the soil and its elements. Just watching the people of India going about their daily lives, you immediately grasp the extent of how destitute and impoverished they are. In the cities where the nation’s increasing prosperity has flowed to some, many others are still left behind in the dirt of deficiency and lack, being trampled upon by the crowd of those who have found quick wealth. The income disparity and large gap is blindingly obvious, with flashy cars complete with white-uniformed drivers just inches away from the physically disabled beggar, whose hands quiver from days’ worth of hunger.

Driving past poor neighbourhoods in the suburbs to reach the grand gates of our five star hotel, I cringe when I see young children walking alone in the dark alleys, to huts made out of stone and dried leaves for the roofs. The bumpy rides show how badly maintained the roads are, and as you turn corners and are presented with a sight of a cow and a goat sharing their dinner at the neighbourhood trash corner, the odour of decaying rubbish and scraps of leftovers makes your stomach churn and waves of nausea wash relentlessly over you. What makes it worse is when you see and old bearded man, skinning as a beanpole, walk towards them to try his luck at the same pile of trash. It makes you turn away, from pity and also guilt, for wasting half of the chicken bryani ordered at the hotel cafe, and for making a face at the fish and chips that wasn’t as tasty as you would have liked.

At the tourist sites, homeless beggars lurk in anticipation of the donations of pity tourists often give, and it has become their occupation and expertise to stretch out their hands in a bid to get their daily allowance. Women hang their hand-made bead necklaces on both arms, and follow you non-stop asking, almost pleading with you to buy their wares. They see you are not interested and they keep dropping their prices, desperation overwhelming their greed to make a quick buck from foreignors. Babies in their arms, these women as wafer-thin from the lack of proper nourishment, and their hungry young children suck at their breasts, dried from the lack of milk. They walk around, sweat glistening on their foreheads, one child in front and one at the side, eyes wide from the draining heat yet alert to the sounds and sights of foreignors.

In the cities, where the markets are still bright and much alive at ten o’clock at night, the narrow streets see cars, motorbikes and bicycles jammed next to each other. You have to weave your way through rows or parked motorbikes to cross from the streets to the pavements, which are then blocked by all the items for sale and the unending stream of pedestrians and saturday night shoppers. Children skip up the stairs to the bright and colourfully-lit shops, as the orchestra of honks and chatter make a rhythm which gives the cities their heartbeat. The word “foreignor” is labelled all over your face as you walk, flinching when a sweaty arm brushes against you, the owner never once realizing and never once turning around to apologize. This is the way things work, you don’t have much time to be worried and particular about personal space — most people here do not understand that concept. Finally, when inside an acessory shop, you feel relieved from the rush outside, but then the heat and unventilated air gushes at you, and discomfort leads the beads of perspiration that start to form. Amazed at the thousands of selections of bangles and earrings and bindis and necklaces there are to choose from, I am always at a loss, and take an extremely long amount of time to appreciate and then finally come to a decision of which to buy. I love the colours and vibrancy, but at the same time, I am also struck by the shop attendants, just young children who have to work to sell the items, whether because it is a family-run business, or because they have the work from the young age of eight. They flock anxiously to you as you enter the shop, asking what you would life. My initial irritation at having an attendant hovering relentlessly at my side slowly grows into admiration of their persistance and constant smiles and politeness. I am also always full of respect for them, for they embrace what they have without complaints, unlike us who live in large clean cities and have made complaining an elevated form of art.

Yet what really makes me feel for Indians is their kind and helpful souls, their willingness to help you push your bus when the engine doesn’t start, and their beautiful smiles when you thank them, realizing that they did it without asking for money, even if they were poor and sitting at the roadside hoping someone would stop by to buy the clothes they had hung up for sale.

India makes you want to go home, to be in the comfort of the hotel, to have the soft bed to sleep on and clean potable water running from the tap. India creates a longing to return and show your fellow countrymen what they are taking for granted, and to shake them up and tell them what so many here in this nation of over a billion do not even know they lack. India makes me ashamed of complaining, of splashing money away like water when young children work so hard just to kill their hunger. India makes me see its people in a different light, makes me appreciate and be thankful for what I do not have to go through, and makes me a little more emphathatic, and for that I am grateful.

An Indian Intensity

There is an intensity about India that I cannot quite describe.

It hits you the moment you arrive at the airport, a thick dense smell hovering in the air you breathe, in the soot puffing out of the vehicles and the sea of dark shiny faces squashed closed together eagerly awaiting the arrival of their loved ones.

It has the power to momentarily stun you especially if you’re coming from a neat, organized society like Singapore, whether the buses and trains run mostly on time, where the air is fresh and clean and the streets are not just black tar covered in piles of trash. In India, roads belong to motorists and pedestrians alike, both taking unyielding claim on the public land, both declaring their possession with a undebiable mix of unconcern and right. Old men walk barefoot on land filthy with spit, faeces, rubbish overspilling from a dump, the smell rotting in your nose. A natural reflex is for me to wrinkle my nose and make a face at the horrifying indifference with which India’s people accept it as a norm in life. Well, it has become and always will be a norm in their lives, and while they wear suits and ties in the clean offices of the multi-national companies, the people blend so well together once on the streets, not standing out from the rest of the bustling of night markets of Pondy Bazaar, and Spencer’s Plaza.

Business men walk right next to beggars who look at you, hands outstretched for a coin or two. Crazy old men walk right in the middle of the street, weaving their way among the cars as they rant to themselves, lost in a world to which only they have access to. As you walk inches close to the ricks (or tuk-tuks like they call them in Thailand), its not hard to feel so much like an outsider, because everything seems so different and hard to accept. Restaurants have people walking barefoot in and out, old people sit and even lie stretched out on the pavements streaked with dirt, and eat with their blackened fingers, yet they have a peaceful look as they view their environment, contemplating their thoughts. It’s hard for me to imagine the lives they live, or more rightly put, I imagine them living boring mundane lives, each day living for the next, but what puzzles me is how they accept the fate they were born in. But I have to constantly remind myself that they can accept what they have because they never had the chance to choose something better. Then when I think that, I feel bad, for their lack of choice, which might also allow them to live contented lives, and I also feel a huge sense of relief that I was born in society where things work, where healthcare is easily though not cheaply available, and where education has lifted so many out of poverty and a fate of impoverishment.

The moment you step out of the cool air-conditioned shelter of the hotel, there is a humid, hot stickiness that envelopes you in the summer heat. The first time you walk into a bakery selling indian sweet delights, the overpowering smell of gee, flour and unventilated air makes you nauseous. If you have never been exposed to Indian cuisine before, the concoction of spices, oil, butter and curries may give you a stomach upset that is quite memorable, for more appropriately, you cannot quite forget. Indians are also famous for their punctuality (or lack there of) and their promises to deliver which usually are followed through only after a few times of prodding. 2 minutes of wait time actually translates into half an hour, and a half hour really means an hour. It gets frustrating when time is of the essence, but in other circumstances, I would say I am quite amused.

Yet while I gripe about many aspects because I have not gotten used to India, I must say there are certain things that impress me alot. The high standard of English here is impressive. Probably the only country where I can get everything done and settled without referring to a translator or having to learn the national language. I honestly am very impressed. Indians are also one of the friendliest peoples that I know. They are always polite, always ready to help (although help may take a while to come) and they always check with you if everything is alright. The indian hospitality is a big factor in my impression of India, and the calendar in my room has captured an Indian chef cooking with a huge grin on his face, and that is precisely the imprint in my mind, a mascot for his fellow countrymen. India is also rich in culture, history and spirituality, with altars everywhere possible, and temples a large feature of its landscape. Every picture you can find about India leaves its shadow in your memory, because nothing about India is forgettable.

India’s intensity is beyond words, its essence barely able to be captured in pictures. You have to be here to understand it, to experience their culture, to soak in the life that is displayed all around. India is a land of great inspiration, a great evoker of thoughts and wonderment. You need to see the beggar on the street eating from the trash while a white-collar office worker walks on by, totally oblivious to the dire state of health the beggar is in, in order to appreciate what you have. You need to see the women walking and performing everyday tasks in their beautifully woven traditional saris, with their bindis proudly on their foreheads, to feel a need to go back to understand tradition and the great longing people have attached to it. It is the land where over a billion form the world’s largest democracy, where Mahatma Gandhi united his people against foreignors and inspired hundreds of millions in his advocating of support of locally-produced goods. It is also where the planet’s cheapest car can be bought, and where the Bollywood industry was birthed and continues to flourish.

India fascinates anyone, everyone who is willing to open their eyes and see the world. It certainly has opened mine.

Incredible India

This weekend I head to India, land of many mysteries and full of a people on whom everyone has a comment to make, complimentary or not.

India is perhaps not on the list of my top 5 destinations and I guess it probably would not have featured in my travel itinerary for at least the next five years, if not for the fact that I have the great combination of getting a free trip and 3 weeks of a break from office, despite being officially considered a business trip. Yet while I had never planned to go to India, India came to me. The organization that I work for is made up of a large percentage of the Indian race, whether they were Indian nationals or not. As the migration process to transfer more production work to India becomes more a reality than just a theoretical recommendation on a PowerPoint slide, I find myself working with more Indians than ever before. Outsourcing is no longer a word confined to movies like Slumdog Millionaire, nor is its impact only evident in the United States or countries like London, it has become a part and parcel of life, and you either deal with it, or move on and become obsolete. Most times there is a general dissatisfaction with the notion that people whose costs are lower are snatching our iron rice bowls away, and we are left with fighting for survival. Yet when you get to know these people and are finally able to put a face to a name found on Outlook, the initial annoyance gradually becomes replaced by a curiosity to understand the nation of India, its people, its culture and why so many have made it the subject of their studies.

A nation of great contradictions, the world’s largest democracy and Asia’s third most important economy, India is incredible, even if it is simply because of the sheer number of people populating the multi-varied landscape south of the Asian continent. The multiple languages and dialects in one country confuse me no end, the uncountable number of gods that they pray and worship, the numerous spices you can find in the markets, these all make up but just a small part of the place which intrigues people from all corners of the world. Its magnetic pull as an exotic nation and gem of the Far East led many Western powers to fight and conquer it, from the Portuguese to the British, and while these foreign occupants left behind trademarks of their individual cultures, they never managed to replace or change the traditions and ethnicity of the people to whom the land rightfully belongs.

When I think of India, I am struck by images of vibrantly-colored fabrics, alive with the prints and intense hues of dyes and intricate designs. My mind conjures up pictures of sheer saris flowing in the wind, of women walking with an arm lifted high to balance the water pot perched precariously on their heads, and of markets, thousands of them.

Although they are dark in skin color, Indians seem to have a rich and colorful culture that permeates all that represents them. Dress-wise, they are well-known throughout the world for their beautifully handcrafted cloths which their women drape in a complicated manner unbeknownst to most non-Indians, and books and documentaries globally agree that the shades available for cloths in India are concentrated and strong, brilliantly delightful and a feast for the eyes. Most of the time, women in India wear their traditional dress proudly, unafraid to address changes in technology while holding on to tradition. I don’t recall any other nation whose brave embrace of new trends and global requirements come so hand-in-hand with retention of culture. In the culinary sphere, Indians are huge on spices and taste, and as intense as the colors of their fabrics are, so are their foods. Curry powder, chilies, ground pepper are just a few of the thousands of spices possibly available for sale in the street markets, and a well-crafted concoction of these ingredients could produce some of the tastiest and most delectable dishes. Indians like their food very hot, very spicy, and most of them prefer to eat with their right hand, as opposed to the fork and spoon. Note of caution however – never eat with your left hand, it is extremely rude and represents something unclean. In the South the Indians eat plenty of rice, basmati being one of the rice staples; while in the north, the people prefer naan, chapatti, and the likes. They often drink a yoghurt called lassi to quench their thirst and its creamy heavy texture is supposed to calm the fire-drenched taste buds. Chai (tea) is found everywhere and is also a way for Indians to welcome guests. The architecture is another awe-inducing feature of this great land. Imagine the number of temples built, each temple construed painstakingly with sculptures of the many Indian gods and stories hidden in the walls. So far, the pictures I have seen never fail to make me wonder about the people who create these structures, and the deep spirituality they must have. And yet there is another phenomenon that confounds me no bounds – why do Indians always shake their head when they talk??

It’s less than a week to go before my maiden voyage to its shores and first time that I will set foot on its soil. It’s undoubtedly exhilarating and I feel like Christopher Columbus now!! I’ll bring back news my friends of this ancient civilization and its mysteries!

Hasta pronto!

Life’s little surprises

I often remember Mannheim days with extreme fondness, with plenty of love and happy thoughts. One day I remember especially well is the day Faye brought back a cake and I saw her walking home with it, with me sitting on the number 60 bus. Somehow I knew the cake was for me. I remember being so happy when she really did surprise me in the room with it!! And to my greater surprise, she told me that Shawn my wonderful cousin had actually contacted her via facebook to coordinate the surprise for me!

I remember skyping with Shawn as I ate the bday cake, very very happy that he had actually bothered to do all that. I can still remember the exact cake, it was chocolate coated and there was a banana on the top. I loved it.

I also remember how on the eve of my birthday I was skyping with Shawn before the dinner Faye had booked me for, and she was telling me that it was just the two of us but that I should dress up cos it was my birthday. Then when I arrived at the restaurant, I got a huge shock when I saw 20+ guests gathered at the Istanbul restaurant all beaming at me! And then later at night where half the party adjourned at my hostel to celebrate and party even more.

I think it doesn’t take a lot to make me happy, just some simple gesture and kind words and I treasure the friendship/ thought for life. Faye did the same for me last year when she brought a bouquet of flowers for me for my bday, taking me completely by surprise.

I think life is beautiful, when you are surrounded by friends and family who care and share so much.

I still remember the first day in Mannheim, our first lunch as we walked through the Turkish quarters, eating at DBO doner, as we bought a sim card for communication in Mannheim. I remember drinking in the sights and sounds of the city, smelling the freshness of summer’s end ushering in autumn’s majestic entrance, the sunshine spilling though Crystal and Jengyin’s sky windows in Hafenstrasse, and their kind offers of biscuits and chocolate.

I have a sudden longing to return and see Mannheim again, to walk next to the Schloss and its large white-framed Baroque windows. To tread down the cobbled streets along the Hauptbahnhoft, and dance in Zapattos. I want to sit down behind Hafenstrasse on the grass, in the heat of summer, lying on nothing but a mat and eating butter pretzels, drinking beer and listening to music blasting from Aaron’s laptop. Watching him cook the weisswurst in the hot water and giving us an introductory course on slicing the German sausages.

I want to return to Mannheim, and replay all the memories, so many made, and especially those with you.

Life’s little surprises, are so beautiful.

Mannheim was one of them.

Random Scribbles

To a place and back
you leave your heart there
the bits of light that flashes so
glows with the fire of your soul
That summer glow
I am in love with the seasons
Of life, of love, of emotions running high
The willowy trees swaying in the light warm breeze
Birds in the silhouetted sunset
gliding through the air
No continuing thoughts in ordered fashion
Just whimsy dreams and longing passion
All stages set for their performance and
Here we wait in reverence
You followed the road,
Not often travelled,
Whose least trodden path
Takes you down the yellow wood
Brilliant beams of gold
From heaven stuns through
The thick green canopy.
I am there, somewhere.

A Mother’s Heart

She yearns and she pines for her daughter’s return
Her safety and her love
A mother gives her all to her little daughter
Dresses her up and cuddles her
When her daughter is a baby,
All she wishes is for her to grow up
So they can talk about life and love and girly stuff
And as the little girl grows up and finds
Her friends among them and boys as well
A mother there she in the back seat dwell
Girlfriends and movie nights and sleepovers too
A daughter is caught up with all in school
The mail in the post she waited for
A shadow of the car trailing away as she goes for a date
Her mother watches from the window pane
‘My little girl has grown’, then says her name
Little whispers of shy words now said but
No longer to her mother
The girl is grown and delights in another
The baby daughter who used to twirl in front
Of the mirror showing mother and daughter
Now stands tall and upright in her gown
As she walks down the isle to her other
The crowd is watching as the father guides her down the path
Happy yet sad to release his daughter
Into the hands of another man
Yet while the father eventually lets go
Her mother is the one whose tears fall silently
A smile breaking into crystal beads
Of love, of memories and of silent joy
She sits in the pew as her daughter glances
Into the eyes of her new found partner
Into the life she will now own, no longer attached to her mother
And as the church bells chime their blessed union,
The bride gathers her train and turns around
She blows her mother a butterfly kiss
Dear mummy you I will dearly miss
But a mother-daughter bond will not fall apart
Nor break because of an added son
But their unity becomes stronger because very soon,
Her daughter becomes a mother too.

Happy Mother’s Day! to all mothers & mothers-to-be : )