I look at her as she is sitting, on the edge of her seat, filling up the little weekly trays for medicine, a physical reminder for her to take the right medicine on the rights days, while her concentration breaks and floats back to the episode of Masterchef playing in the background. She still manages to fill the trays without looking, a second nature. Was it always this easy for her?

I look at her now as she is in the kitchen, a bomb dropped in the shape of motherly need to provide comfort through food. Her cheeks are not a delicate tint of rose but are flaming red, igniting her whole face. Yet she ploughs through the various dishes she’s preparing to make sure everyone is well fed while she takes herself outside to cool herself down and catch her breath. I wonder if she feels full watching us all eat.

I try not to acknowledge her illnesses, letting them pass over my head while I lightly make jokes when she speaks about them, a hitch in her voice and her eyes searching my face. I don’t think I’ve let anything slip yet. But how can I not think about them, my mother, who used to once house such incredible strength now struggling to carry shopping bags. Maybe it would help if she didn’t buy so much, but that would be taking a part of her that makes her my mother. Her need to do things in abundance, to make sure we are always topped up on snacks that are the current craving, although usually by the time she has stocked the cupboards, we no longer like it as much, finding a new snack that will inevitably end up at the front of the cupboard the next week. Maybe it’s just a natural motherly instinct to go out and buy what their children want, even if it is said in passing, like when it was mentioned once amidst a bigger conversation that I always have to eat a sweet after having a meal, and the next day there was a packet of sweets on my desk for me to take to school with me. Although they didn’t survive the weekend, I found them finished in my mother’s room, as she guiltily handed the empty packet over to me, clearly unable to not give into her sweet tooth. No wonder she is missing a few. Although she proudly shows off her gold caps, the child in her relishing at looking like a pirate.

Countless nights I have cried myself to sleep, wanting to find solace in my grandmother beside me, pouring my heart out to her about what my biggest fear is, but it’s not entirely fair. To turn around and cry to her about my mother’s health, thinking my little old grandma will be able to take hearing about her daughter like this from her granddaughter, who hardly ever sheds a tear in front of others. I once had a dream. Of myself in a distant future, a life unlike my own, yet it was. There I was, married, and asked to cream my mother-in-law’s feet, yet all I can do is cry, yet I do it, to save my mother’s honour, while dragging the words from deep inside that I never once did this for my own mother. They say Heaven is under your mother’s feet, yet how am I unable to even touch hers. Maybe I am not quite fit out for Heaven.

I think maybe I should start showing my inner attention paid to her illnesses, she quite sadly thinks we don’t really care about them. How annoying of her to say. I sometimes think of what she told me once, about how my brother confided in his friend’s mother, that he also doesn’t like to acknowledge her illnesses because it is too hard to face, his mother that was once strong and didn’t need help with anything and was like an incredible moving force now needs to sleep strapped up to a machine to help her breathe at night. How foolish my mother is, thinking we don’t care because we don’t show it. But how can you accept that the centre point of your life is slowly but surely bending at the sides, trying not to fold in on itself for at least 10 more years, until we are all set up in life, only then will she allow herself to rest, eternally.


She said she wanted me in her life forever


And maybe it’s because of the way I close up and block out

And am distant

Floating in another world

With her at the centre of it

All the while I was letting her walk by

While she was trying a little less harder to bring me back to her


Or maybe it’s because of the way she is

Her warm and radiant self

A beacon for all that surrounds her

But it isn’t to blame

That smile of hers

At the faintest whisper of her name


But I’m guessing it’s been a growing feeling

That made her decide

Her forever with me is over

Through windows

we showed signs and made shapes almost every day for a year

Except for those weeks I was lying in bed

Not mine but the hospitals

That time when the signs just weren’t enough


It was bright when I returned

and ran straight to the window

He was sat by his, with his head on the glass

A bouquet of flowers resting on the ledge

Silently wilting


I let him sleep

But left him a sign

“I’m back, I hope they are mine.”


When I woke the next day

He was approaching with speed

“Of course…” said his sign, “who else’s would they be?”

He told me to wait

Because he was taking my turn

Where his words came out slow

But he was making me learn


about how while I was gone

He had swam the distance between us

Pulled by the gazes that were moments too long

And in a literal sense

Through the small pond that separated our houses

In the dark of the night

After days of waiting

For my light


He was turning the pages fast

And maybe it was the leaves in the wind

The way they danced in the air

But it seemed like his frame was shaking


He said he slept by his window

For days on end

All the while thinking how he could tell me

That he had notebooks filled with what could have been said

What could have been done

If we had stepped out sooner

And into the sun


there was suddenly one behind his head

beaming straight through him and into me

I thought it was a sign

A grand gesture

This is how we would meet

He suddenly dropped the book

And yelled he was done

I thought this was it, the time had finally come

He used the approaching light to show me one last sign

A shaking little heart

                               Before his room went dark.


Through windows

She has the cutest little laugh

As she turns back to face me

Almost subconsciously

As soon as something funny happens

Or is said

And it hurts a little

These flashes of the past

As if nothing has changed

But it’s really there

That division

Even if it’s only small

I would have been in the seat next to her

Having lunch with her

I would have laughed my sides in with her

But these small flashes of the past

When she still turns to me in times of happiness

Make me glad that I still exist

Even if it is in miniature.