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Lessons my mother spoon fed me - a thread.
My mother gave me a box when i was young and told me to use it forever. What inside it was kindness and a handwritten note that instructed me to throw the contents of the box, even when Amma is not around to the people I meet, as time goes by, who turn into humans who cheat.
She says the art of mending is to shower kindness at your destroyer.
Amma taught me to land like a cat thrown from a height, on four legs. And to always keep a bandaid in my pocket, just in case as people won't have a spare one for you to use.
Our house smells of her famous lemongrass tea but what makes it home is Amma's scent, the motherly scent diffused into her constant blue lady perfume She shows me how to work 9-7, carry a household in her pockets, debts under her eyes and how shes there to support my father and I
Amma lost her father when she was 8. She tells me the story of the little girl who laughed at the funeral, overwhelmed at the sight of all the cousins altogether, oblivious to the fact that she'd never see her father again.
The thing with that story is that there's always a mandatory tear with it, that rolls down her bronze cheeks. I have seen my poetry resemble with that single tear that lingers on her cheek and to the smile that comes right after. I have learned that my words are hers.
I have told Amma a million times not to give away her heart that easily when I see her giving it to the multiple maids in our house who'd get replaced every week, and to the beggars on the street. She looks at me asks
'what becomes of your life if you set boundaries for love?'
'what becomes of your life if you set boundaries for love?'
