The Lost Little Girl

My mother moves around swiftly,

Murmuring under her breath,

Cursing her wretched fate

Then me, for the mess.

My mother,

A skinny woman in her fifties,

Still agile like a feline

Always walking the tight rope

Balancing on her tail.

I know not much

Of my mother as a little girl.

But my aunt says,

She once cleaned up after her

And quietly took the blame.

If Mother Teresa were to be born again

She'd proudly take my mum in.

But you see, strangers

are much more courteous to mercy

Than those akin.

My mother slogged her days,

Wished her nights away

For the ones she love.

But what she didn't learn

Is that she too is worthy of herself.

Taught from a tender age

The unfair ways of the world.

The selfless little girl,

Became a nurturer

Way before she became my mum.

They say if you

draw too much from the well

And never give it back again.

There comes a drought

That parches the well

From the inside out.

My mother was taught to give

And then expect nothing in return.

For where is the kindness

If you seek reward for the duties you have done.

The little girl found a higher power,

And the skewed ways he worked.

Unveiled to her by Valmiki

Whose women walk themselves

Through fire,

To prove their worth.

I wish I could make my mother

See the little girl again;

'cause though her dharma

Smirks through her reflection,

Her eyes sometimes still cry for those burned hands.