She is stirring Chicken curry in a black stainless steel pot when I see these thin tiny wrinkles on her hands. She pours some of the Gravy with my favorite chicken piece in a white bowl and hands it to me.
“I’ve made your favorite food today” A confused smile captures her beautiful face.
Her eyes fighting with a fear that her daughter might still be angry over last night’s fight and her heart assuring and reassuring her, No she isn’t.
One warm desperate tear flows out of my eye.
I can see my soul that gets up and hugs her passionately leaving my stone-heart body behind.
I take a bite of chicken piece that cuddles up with the tears stuck in my throat and a soothing peace occupies her face.
She puts a glass of water beside my plate leaves the kitchen.
All these years I kept complaining to myself and she kept cooking my favorite dishes. She never understood that I wanted more than my favorite chicken pieces and I never realized that I’ve to tell her that.
Nodding my head upside down wasn’t easy that time but her face glowed with an ethereal shine and my heart swam into the pleasure. The pleasure of watching happiness on her face because of me, for the first time. This time, she didn’t even try to hide it, she ACTUALLY hugged me.
She didn’t realize that all my life, I never ate the pieces I didn’t like.
I’m waiting for the surprises life has to offer after 10 more days.
I wonder how beautiful I’d be looking, wearing my bridal dress on a body in which a stone pumps white blood in the ruptured veins and it spills out on the grave of broken dreams caged in shackles of love and respect for my parents.
I hate chicken curry now and she doesn’t know that.
I wish she could know, ever.