Mother,

When I sit to write,

I’ve words that assemble gently ,

at times with an unknown assertion.

Each one a sentence,

Pages to many short stories.

Selfless and unconditional

Words of love and care,

Spiritual and emotional milieu;

Oscillating between a situational teacher ,

Otherwise a friend;

Lessons unplanned yet taught,

Each one a description.

From your scribbled recipes

And shared values of tradition,

There’s never a day without references;

I seem not to have grown any bigger.

But, I like it when said,

I look like you.

Copyright © 2017, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar