Hard times.

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I remember the day my mother told me that father had died in a car accident very vividly, I also remember thinking how hard would it be for my mother to raise me all on her own, after she said that I was hard to raise, which was especially the case with her, since she had to move from one place to another during her work.

My father earned very little, so while money never became an issue, I tried and started growing up into a good boy, which is why the fridge had lesser chocolates now and every time we went shopping together I let her choose the products that were on sale or had a toy that was free with it.

She never really told me that she was sick of returning back to the same office desk over and over again, because she had groceries to buy, and groceries don’t come free. When I was 12, I was diagnosed with a rare mental disorder, and the last time I went to my psychotherapist I realized a single session costs 75 dollars. Which is why my mother’s depression was barely anything to notice because 75 dollars meant a lot, it meant a week load of groceries and it meant our house’s rent, and perhaps somewhere in between months, it also meant my sessions with the doctor.

Since childhood, I was cautious of how my mother never had to run after me. I also tried and kept her company from time to time, from standing alongside her in the kitchen helping her with the side dishes to sometimes going to her office with her favorite cake, wrapped in a silver lined wrapping paper.  When father was alive, I often tried and helped him with gardening. And while he was gone now, the garden still stayed. Places do indeed have stories to tell.

Two months back we moved from our old house to a new but smaller flat, somewhere in the middle of the city, I refuse to pray the same way my grandparents taught me.

I started writing almost a year back and I have never found myself writing merry, joyous tales; it just doesn’t feel like the right time, it never does. Last night my mother told me that she misses our old house despite the fact that I don’t, so we went for a short visit. The house is more than a millennial old and stands on the same piece of land that mispronounces our grief, but it also hides the secrets somewhere in its treasured rooms. I fear that the land will grow up to be that one exotic thing our family owns, with the house crying at our deaths and smiling at newborns.

My mother sits in the courtyard, slightly sobbing, and it is the night before we know it. We decide to spend our night in our own rooms, but my mother says she can’t sleep, because the moon is too beautiful, and she an everlasting suffering awed in tranquility.

At this point of the night, the last thing I want is either one of us bursting into tears. Sadness, is odd because for once it soothes our heart but with slight premonitions of bursting out all we have. And maybe I’ll live longer than my mother ever will and I will die each day, sobbing, crying, dying.

I am wary and fear that I’ll always be, because I know that some part of me still remembers coming out of your womb, and noticing the way you stood right at the school gates, waiting, I remember noticing your perfect hair and studying your every move, your hands always sticking out for us. I remember and I fear that I might never stop crying and crying unfurls fast.

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