Sometimes I look at the regrets of my mother trailing along the corners of her eyes
As she wonders about her place in the world too often
There is no secret to motherhood, I suppose
Just a constant feeling of doing it wrong
My father consoles her, calls her beloved
A sincere way of reminding her of their own vows
Yet when she wakes up at night, feeling the clutches of past on her throat,
she simply lets him sleep without saying a single word
I believe it is when a relationship turns into partnership as time moves along the edges of their bodies,
Sometimes becoming a game, as they team up together, shake hands, pat each other’s back,
constantly reminding themselves about the love that blossomed years ago
This is how I see my mother, constantly juggling between motherhood and being a wife
On most of the days, this is all she can offer
Yesterday when I read about the case where God was being sued for damaging a man’s house,
he won it because God couldn’t/wouldn’t show up in courtroom
I want to do that too,
Charge him with the felony of breaking my mother’s hope too soon
Have that kind of justice which nobody speaks about
But it is when I remind myself that faith has no witnesses, and the act of dreaming is still not covered in the law books or what punishment is suffice when they are chased off, like cats when entering the house
My mother seldom prays and when she does, it is the symptom of her surfacing anxiety
Every gurbaani I know is because some days my mother can’t remember the difference between faith and repentance
She has shed more tears for what she didn’t do and no God has ever tried to tell her otherwise
But then I remind myself this is how prayers work,
To fold hands mean begging in some cultures
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