Days of the Past

“Mom??...You are sooooo AWE- SOME!!”

With her eyes and mind engrossed in reading the book “Promises, Promises” she lifted her eyes from the papers, and gently turned her head to the right with a beautiful questioning smile on her face, which turned her dusky complexion into one lit by that one single candle in the dark.

“No?? Ok tell me ..who writes lines like these:

Your innocence, your purity,

The warmth that you exude, along with love,

Your wisdom, your maturity, and,

The trust you bond us with your care,

Like others I was no different,

To come to you and hold your hand,

Every time I selfishly understood,

My own reasons for being sad.

This time embrace me in your shelter,

Let the hug touch the other’s soul,

Hear the beat that the heart speaks,

And let the eyes wash the tears from the core,

And when my tears of love, touch your warm cheeks,

Just close your eyes and feel,

How strong I’m with you, and

Without you undeniably weak.

This time let us be ‘one’,

No two, ‘you’ and ‘me’,

And as our friendship brings us closer,

Let us on wet sand, stamp our feet,

Let us climb the rocks high there,

A special place we’ll find,

And after choosing our favourite rock,

We’ll engrave our names, so divine.

“Hmm..Come sit here besides me sweetheart” she asked her daughter Aadya, lovingly.

Aadya, was a lot like her mother, Amaira. She had taken her sharp features and gorgeous smile from her and from her dad- she had taken his curly hair, dark brown eyes, a whitish complexion and all he could give to her in terms of having that fun element in life. This was more than what Amaira could ask for.

“I’m waiting Mom!!”

“Yes, so tell me where did you find this?”

“In that treasure of yours where you had written a quote by Ella Sharpe, who says~ “The genuine poet is an intuitive psychologist” said Aadya.

Amaira smiled again, amazed and stunned, not knowing how her little fragile bouquet of happiness had grown into this brilliant young teen.

“And what do you think about those lines Aadya?” she asked

“Well, the ones you wrote or the ones which Ella said?”

“Both?”

“Hmm..well, first of all there is no denying that you are “AWE-SOME” and secondly, I just happened to pick the quote that suits you best, of all the others you had written in this diary”.

“Perhaps, that is what you feel Aadya, tell me what you thought about them? Or if you didn’t, then think and tell me?"

“ Mumma, these lines have a lot of passion in them. A lot. There is this loyalty, this desire to be “one” with that friend, so much as if that friend means the whole world to you, and when you write in those lines that you would like to engrave your names on the rock, that is such a profound gesture, you know, a memory, a remembrance of your friendship with that friend, even after that friend is no longer with you!”

 This diary which Amaira gave to her daughter had word- meanings in them, which she would keep penning down every time she would come across some new words, for words were her first and her last love of all. And as a matter of fact, because words would knock her door any time, any moment, not seeking nor needing any permission, she would end up writing mostly at the back of whichever notebook or register she would have. And this time, it was this poem.

She didn’t remember the title, but remembered the association and for the friend for whom she had written, keeping in mind that friend, as she penned those words into a necklace of poetry.

And here was her fourteen year old Aadya who had interpreted the words and expressed them befittingly, as if it was all that she could say at her age.

“Mumma, You thinking about something?”

"Your recitation made me recall the friend I had in mind as I wrote these words”

“Do you still have that friend with you mumma?”

With sadness in her eyes which reached her faint smile, she said “No, unfortunately”.

She sighed reminiscing the fond memories she had with that friend of hers.

“Mom, can I say something?”

“Hmm..?”

“Whatever happened, I do not know, but one thing I know for sure is, that, you loved that friend from the bottom of your heart”. And with this Aadya hugged and ‘held’ her mother just the way, according to Winnicott, a ‘good- enough- mother’* could.  

That hug in that moment spoke more than a thousand words could. And with that Amaira had eyes filled with tears that which she tried to hold back. Aadya kissed her mom’s cheek lovingly and left the diary with her in her lap.

As Amaira lifted the bookmark she opened the page only to feel the poem titled as ……..

“Tears of Love”.


* To share with my Vanilla People, "Good- enough- mothering" is a concept given by Psychoanlayst D.W.Winnicott. A"good-enough mother" is a mother whose conscious and unconscious physical and emotional attunement to her baby adapts to her baby appropriately at differing stages of infancy, thus allowing an optimal environment for the healthy establishment of a separate being, eventually capable of mature object-relations. He is one of the writers I fell in love with:)