The Day I Met Her

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Abstract

he day I met her, the day she scarcely stopped being herself, the day she helped me be one of herself, the day she took my silence for surrender, the day she stopped seeing the sapling she had buried with love and left to survive by itself.</p><p id="0ffe">I look back at the day I met her, and I see her worn-out face at every milestone I had passed by.</p><p id="cf00">Or, is it mine?</p><p id="ba4a">© Sana Rose 2020</p><h2 id="bced">If you liked this poem, you might also like:</h2><div id="bf4e" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/ode-to-a-nestling-29a826dc149b"> <div> <div> <h2>Ode To A Nestling</h2> <div><h3>Songs of Motherhood — 1 (A poem)</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*kjC5FqY5_dPt3y9C)"></div> </div> </div>

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      <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-promised-oasis-6d3aa8e9edb0">
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            <h2>The Promised Oasis</h2>
            <div><h3>A poem from my collection ‘Songs of Motherhood’</h3></div>
            <div><p>medium.com</p></div>
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    </div><p id="1798"><a href="http://www.sanarose.com"><b>Sana Rose</b></a><b> </b>is an award-nominated novelist, poet, physician, counseling professional and freelance writer based in Kerala, India. Connect with her on <a href="http://instagram.com/sanahrose"><b>Instagram</b></a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/sanahrose"><b>Twitter </b></a>and <a href="http://facebook.com/SanaRoseOfficial"><b>Facebook</b></a>.</p></article></body>

When life hardens mother-daughter bonds

She was and continues to be what the earth is to the trees.

And the day I met her belongs to her memory than mine.

Yet I wonder if she remembers it at all, the waves of love that lapped up her pain and my wails.

Eons later, life has tarnished most of the scars into glistening stories.

Once a string of lullabies, her tongue restlessly slaps against her palate, now to relieve herself, and weigh down a few hearts.

I look back at the day I met her, the day she scarcely stopped being herself, the day she helped me be one of herself, the day she took my silence for surrender, the day she stopped seeing the sapling she had buried with love and left to survive by itself.

I look back at the day I met her, and I see her worn-out face at every milestone I had passed by.

Or, is it mine?

POETRY | MOTHERHOOD

The Day I Met Her

When life hardens mother-daughter bonds

If you liked this poem, you might also like:

Ode To A Nestling

Songs of Motherhood — 1 (A poem)

The Promised Oasis

A poem from my collection ‘Songs of Motherhood’