Jyothy Sreedhar

Her 'next'

My first taste was that of my mother’s breast…

My first touch was her skin

ere I opened my eyes…

That touch was my first sense of life.

The purity of that milk is flowing in me

as a moonlight in a dark night.

That day I clinged on to her

while I could hear her heartbeats.

It had variations of a tougher life-

the sacrifices done, small and big…

Never cud I realise what she wanted.

Her wishes remained as sun in a night.

Still it lit up my moon in the dark

and stars for my searchlight…

I refered to myself as her ‘next’

and she said: “Don’t”.

I wondered why…

She then smiled

and hit my head light

and whispered ‘my child…’

What is hidden within

the streaks of her smile…

What is in that heat under her arms

that I feel when I hug her tight…

What is the vision she dreams about me

when she looks at me

with her face on her palm…

I can’t read her depth

but still want to be like her.

Why, what and how are the questions

that need not to be answered

but have to be felt

as my mother’s tear for me.

While the present gets faded

as a twilight in the dusk,

she stands as a mystery

as the future of an immediate past…

Night, hold yourself!

Never come!