I have but fits of those memories.
You showed me the bright moon and called it my uncle.
I gazed. Uncle gazed back. Awe left my mouth wide open. The trick worked. I was fed with food and imagination.
Mother, you are the love with whom I don't want to grow old with. I hate the wrinkles which denude thy skin every passing year.
Also, how did you feed me when there were clouds and rains?