Cancer can't lacerate our love, Mum
I remember your pale skin on face, mumma, when you first heard the word Leukemia from the doctor which she put inside my basket of life.
You tried hard not to sob but I know you did behind those green curtains. My forlorn cascade trickled down when my head was on white pillow and the white narrow tube was around my neck as my nose bled hard yesternight. And I shivered.
I was pretty unconscious but I feebly consumed the resonating air from your sob.
I could have told you Mum when I was running hard behind my losing weights with gasping breaths. I could have spoken up when each witching hour I managed with crumpled tissue papers and threw them with their red faces at that ever closed bin. I used to cry with, holding my nose. The white cells kept annihilating the red ones and I nibbled on my agonized soul yet never let the wail out from my ribcage.
I saw my old photographs, perhaps when I was months old. I keenly observed your face Mum and I heard from granny about your dreams which you painted inside the frame of mine.
How could I let them engulfed by deluge after being a Leukemia hit corpse?
Your melodious lullaby still echoes near my ear. It used to be autumn when this echo used to be real but now the butterflies are dead, Mum, as the summer from my skin never bade me valedictory. The temperature of my canvas and perhaps I miss my winter.
Though you are there but I miss your skin's touch during the chemotherapy. Every falling hair of mine counts the remaining jiffy for my breathing. I see those waves of tears slaying your eyes. I see those castle of dreams being sabotaged. I smile and try to hide the truth behind the facade but I wail Mum,
I am failed.
But I desire from each shooting star to live a little longer. I will miss your white palms over my sleepy eyes and head, your hum at the kitchen, your midnight visit in my room and cover my chest with the blanket, your kisses at my forehead ; your each fragment.
With the passage of time, I will be faded away, Mum. But with the love you embraced me, the jolted heap of cancer perks on my maple desk, I will never let the nightmarish corpse lacerate them.
I will be gone someday, Mum. But I am worried, who would massage your head at the time of your hideous headache? Who would make glucose sirup after the hectic handwork of yours? I breathe hard Mumma.
I sigh hard!
From this warm bed, I will linger on the photo frame at your room Mumma , someday. Someday, I would just stare at your teary eyes and sniffing nose and would weep too from some corner of God's lap.
But Mum, the love and affection you harbour inside your quarters of heart and I do inside mine,
cancer can never lacerate them.
Cancer can't lacerate our love, Mum.