Her window panes resembled the symbol of a raging band.
Her door, had memorized her last footsteps her waiting eyes seeking a glance of her dead son.
The kitchen's back door, broken too many times, was locked shut with her stubbornness.
Stubbornness— Her son's knock will stir her awake.
Her son is alive, she claimed, She saw him zooming on his dream bike. Just this morning!
She cooked like a dream, it tasted much like her love for us raw, selfless, forever.
Last summer we laid our floormats and she looked at the sky with her waiting eyes seeking a glimpse of her dead son.
She used to pick up her phone the small ones that fit inside the palm. Like the promises she whispered to herself, that her son would return. It was her survival kit.
Clicked once,twice, an hourly check perhaps seeking the missed call of her dead son.
Gods and Snakes and The Dead ones visited her two bedrooms and her kitchen, she marched out with them, not through the door. She chose the red rough floors, of her bathroom.
The bird had been her anchor, it repeated a lot so did she they borrowed each other's tongue. muttering the same event. About him.
The owner who left, the son who was dead.
Philosophers and doctors might enquire about the foundation of pain isn't it, having to produce kids in a row till you bear a son ?
Isn't it carrying the baby and returning home in the dark belly of the truck?
Isn't it having to live with the ghost of the lost radio dream?
Isn't it losing the voice to the whims and fancies of everyone.
She did not suffer. She slipped, through her sufferings. She slipped through her nightmares.
Her hurry.. Hurrying past everything to reach her waiting god, Her eagerness.. bulldozed to death. Her head fell fast, to meet her son.