“Don’t eat from the tree!”
“Don’t eat from the tree!” And then of course, we did.
It’s a tale as old as time. In my case, it’s a wonderful comical trope that has anchored a place in the theatre of my head. But it’s a dance we’ve learnt — to waltz with advice that sounds like a premonition but is more a sum of experiences; to move with flair when I heed it, and to step lightly when I don’t.
Conversations over chai are persistently (and thankfully always) candid, conflicts of opinion undisguised and agreements, fairly reasonable. Our acumen for spotting invertebrates, exceptional ;)
I thank her often for handing me a legacy of polymorphic interests. And when I marinate in them too much, chide her for it in jest. It’s an incredibly good problem to have though, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Glee, glory and grief are quite the universal guests. My first response is to embrace them with fiery focus and a hum of grace, and much of it is a derivative of what I saw.
A bow pulpit to secure your anchor, even with a different port-of-call, is a special luxury.
We don’t really do Mother’s Day celebrations, and this is not a belated post. To be able to document through any medium is a staggering gift, and so now I humbly do it often to combat my frustratingly sporadic writing bursts. And of course, mum had to be condensed into this little cross-stitch of words.
About time!
