She
placed me on the very top shelve of a book case three months ago. I sat there
since, quiet and gently bending in beauty and grace, my two soft petals and three
tender sepals outstretched like a lion’s mane, the colour of calm light violet threaded
with deep purple veins. My white specked throat enhances my blood red female lip,
open and receiving.
High
on my stem, I and my several delicate faces peer down on this room which seems
to be both her work place and her dining room. There's a white wooden table in the middle, every morning she sits with her laptop and
printer, she types, writes notes, makes calls, drinks coffee and talks to
herself. When her child is home from school, she removes the computer and
printer and places two dinner plates, the little one always has milk, the
mother always drinks water. She asks her child how school was, she asks her
what she’s been learning in math, and whether she finds any of it challenging. The
child is animated, always eager to make her mother laugh, they giggle and tell
each other funny things. The child never has the appetite to finish all her food,
the mother wishes she would.
On
Thursdays the mother asks the child about music class and the child is more
lively and animated about music class than about any other school subject, the
music teacher is funny and inspiring she explains.
The
mother is happy when the child is happy, the child is happy when she can make
her mother laugh or get her interested about something she is saying.
They
are two separate beings; one very young, one mature. One thinks that by knowing
Jupiter has sixty three moons she surely knows everything there is to know, the
other used to believe she knew something. One at the beginning of the journey,
where the laborious distance and trying bumps can’t yet be seen, the other had seen
the incessant journey and felt some of its dreadful bumps. And yet, they feed
on each other’s existence; one sees what she could be in the future, the other
sees what she could have been.
