Mother’s Day
- Writers Pouch
- May 8, 2017
- 3 min read
It is strange, how I always fail to remember my first memory of you. So, to me, it seems as if you have been with me from the beginning of time. If I recall my first memory of enjoying the warmth of your lap, it reminds me of the night when I had caught cold and you strolled through our rooms, singing me lullabies that I still remember so clearly that I could sing them to my grandchildren. I remember our Sunday meals when we relished your eggplant curry and three eggs as we couldn’t afford meat.
While I ate an egg, you would eat half of it for lunch and dinner. It was always a race of who would finish first. You ensured that I won and then offered me a portion of your food. When I grew up a little, you would not do that anymore and if I tried, you would say, “Asking for food from others’ plate is bad manners!” Now, at the age of twenty-three, when I think of your plate with half an egg, it makes me realize how you found happiness in that fragment of an egg every weekend. I wish I had at least once, offered you a bite from mine.
