She stood at the door of her son’s room-

At the very threshold of what was his.

He might as well have been there with her;

Slouching, as he always did,

Filling up the space around him with his carefree (undignified) adolescent presence.

Looking with her eyes,

And with a mind that wasn’t (but should’ve been) hers.

The books, the bed, the walls whisper (scream)- this is me! This is me! This is me!

But really, that was silly:

He was her son, she made him; owned him-

And the things you own know no ‘me’-

They’re just yours;

Yours to keep and cherish and show-

They know no ‘me’.

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written by Administrator, November 22, 2009

excellent

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written by umbrella, November 23, 2009

WOW! In simple words u captured the very essence of a mother's reluctance and trouble in seeing 'her baby' as an individual! The BEST.

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written by IdleMind, December 01, 2009

Wonderful ... and the essence of a parent's ownership symbolized at its perfection!

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