Today is my mother's birthday.
Everyone tells me I look just like her, what say?
So this is what I'll look like later.
I don't need an app for my future-look calculator.
She was a working mom.
Woke up at 4 and 5 a.m. to keep things ready and maintain the home.
Our breakfast, lunch and snack boxes,
and the occasional whiney sick children detoxes.
I don't know how (and now, why) we'd have 15 sweets for Christmas.
Daily, one by one, late into the night.
She sat and made I am witness to her plight.
I remember some days I didn't want to go to school.
At the last moment in the morning, I'd pretend; I was so cruel.
To be sick in bed, while I was probably just lazy instead.
But anyway, all set for work with kajal and lipstick,
for my sake she'd also have to call in sick.
Even when my father died and we were so young,
there was never anything lacking even on the tongue.
Meat was always part of each and every course.
Even our breakfast stayed the same, not snatched from our mouths with force.
Nothing made less, a decision that came with a lot of stress.
Her hair greyed overnight.
When my dad died, that was her plight.
She is my mom,
resilient and strong.
She taught me how to get along,
and fit in like a note within a song.
I was always blessed with a beautiful family; that's where I learned to love unconditionally.
Love is patient; love is kind.
That is what mum and dad to me remind.
Not to be proud or easily angered.
The Bible says so, and in us they anchored.
Keep no record of wrongs and protect,
although no family can ever be perfect.
Trust in God and never lose hope.
These are the values she taught me to use to cope.
Then she became both mom and dad,
and although I drive her so mad,
I will always be her sweetheart.
She reads all my articles.
And finds them all remarkable.
She told me, "I'm proud of you."
In that compliment I'd like to brew.
Happy Birthday Mommy.
Please live long and stay healthy.