I look at you and wonder about my life. You speak to me and I listen as I listen to my own words. I am awestruck at how you encourage me at being myself-the adamant, straightforward, bull-headed spirit that I am. I fail to understand why you aren't me!
Mom, an imagination for those who are bereft of her, purest love for those who have her and tearfully happy memories for those who are far away. For me, you are my greatest strength despite differences. I wasn’t away when you assumed I was, I wasn’t heartless when you wept and I wasn’t rude when I was harsh on you. Your pain was my pain and all I try is banishing it.
My Mirror speaks to me of my failures, consoles me for losses and loves me for smiles. I ponder over the unseen reason behind my joy at seeing myself. I then realize, I am an image of my beloved Mom with a few alterations. I love when my Mirror throws a wicked smile when I am naughty; she knows darn well what runs on my little brain.
O Mom, you are my mirror and my Mirror says so to me. Why then few times the image breaks?
