I see through my mother.I see thousands of me.

A womb. Safe. A child. Running.

An adolescent. Hiding. An adult. Weeping.

I look at myself. I see my mother.

Hair that smells of jasmine.

(Did she ever wear flowers in her hair?)

Slightly wrinkled skin on her hands.

(How many times have those been hold?)

The hem of her ‘চাদৰ’ that always falls so effortlessly just below her back and yet carries the weight of the world.

My mother houses all her powers and her vulnerabilities in the safety pin she wears on the decades old bangle of her left wrist.

My mother poses awkwardly for the camera.

My mother fights off men twice her size.

My mother rebels, my mother complies.

The winter sun shares all its secrets with her.

The front yard at home becomes busy with stories.

Sometimes, the sun rests on her forehead, hides between her fingers.

My mother is from the first generation of women in the family who speaks up.

I will never have enough of how her eyes light up every time a conversation about books starts.

My mother has spent more than half of her life tending to the needs of others.

A little stolen time here, a little there.

My sister says I need a lot of ‘me time’.

I think I get that from my mother.

What she could not have, what was a privilege for her,became a habit of mine.

Did she ever find herself?I wonder.

I try to make a list of the things I have done for her and the things I want to do.

How does one ever repay one’s mother?

Maybe they do not.Because they cannot.

Maybe love helps.Maybe love suffices.

Maybe love is indeed enough.

question is,

how do I love her enough?