In a parallel universe—
my mother does not care much for the cobwebs
on the windowpanes or
having it all together, but
dust does not gather on her bookshelf.
She has the luxury of time.
She still reads.
In a parallel universe—
she eats food when she is hungry
she has no need to swallow her pride
she rests, like my father— smug and guiltless.
She still likes herself.
In a parallel universe—
she was not rushed into womanhood
she was granted the angst of adolescence,
permitted to be a child long enough
to blossom patience; now
she has no need to trade places with me.
She still grows.
In a parallel universe—
her teardrops crystallise,
metamorphose into diamonds she can sell, and
have her own currency—
she builds her own home,
buys back all the lost time,
adds it to her own life.
She does not live through me; for me.
She still loves herself.
In a parallel universe—
she has touched the Darjeeling snow
and her hopes do not melt with it
she is fifty-five and her dreams are
obstinate; still breathing..
She wants to live.
Poulomi Chandra is an English Literature scholar from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. She is keen on writing essays and loves to scribble poetry when she can’t seem to hold it all in. Other than that, she’s very eager to read anything she can get her hands on when she is not obsessing over spicy food or taking long naps.
Featured image: Ashwini Chaudhary/Unsplash