I find myself struggling to remember the mother of my childhood. She spent half my life in bed, all of my adulthood.
As we sat down to eat breakfast today, dosa, I could only hear her voice - nudging is to eat soon. And then I remembered the last time we talked about dosa. It was the morning Andrew didn't want to go out to get breakfast. She was ringing the bell and I went to check on her. She asked what I wanted for breakfast. If I wanted string hoppers. And what would Christine eat. She won't eat dosa, mamma had said. By the time we got this sorted out, appa had gotten angry and was saying he would go. I went and woke Andrew up, words were exchanged. After I came to the room, I heard appa and Andrew shout at watch other. And then appa said he'd make his own breakfast and made oats for both of them.
Comments
Post a Comment