Where are my shoes?*

Remembering You Mother,
Is like going back, to every bit
Of my growing up, every little helps,
Every moment, every day, every trip,

Remembering You, mother mine,
Is like going back, making a return,
To those days, whence, like a little kid,
Me would call out Loud, 'Mother, where are my shoes?" Thence Perhaps you were busy at the kitchen,
Mornings of our busy busy days,
Father perhaps had gone to the bazaar,
To bring home some grains,
And green groceries, heaped,
You would come rushing,
Smelling so much of spices, tomatoes, chillies, turmeric , 'Can't you find 'em?'
You would perhaps bring to me,
My shoes, suede , white,
School going hours
How i go back, to that mother,
Remembering You, dusting
The shelf of memories,

Thence, much like the morning, you would smile,
Making me sit on a chair, at the porch,
And you yourself would sit
Down on the floor,
Helping me with my dressing up,
Morning perhaps then falling upon us, soft,

Tying those laces, you would bring me
The satchel, books and pencils, erasers too,
Chalks and coloring tools,

The morning would then come
Following You , mother,
Your light, calm,
How i go oft, to thy remembrance,

As did perhaps, a painter awesome,
As did perhaps all of us do,

Remembering You, Mother,
Is such a lighted escape,
Blown away, catching the breeze,
Much like a runaway Feather.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based, as can easily be understood, going with the flow of Poesy and remembrance of Mother.
Courtesy: haibye)


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