Mothers and Daughters
The colour of her eyes had changed. Faded from deep black to hollow grey. The hair too were silver white now. The skin had become pale. The lustre that once represented youth was gone. I knew her end was near. I could tell it from the colour of her eyes.
A loving daughter. A caring wife. A mother of five. A grandmother of more than a dozen kids. She was once young, spirited and beautiful. I never saw her young but I could tell it from her photographs. The lively tapestry of her once handsome face, looked morbid now. The youth had finally faded. The old age had triumphed.
After eight decades, the age had made her fragile. Memory had denied to respond. The body had denied to cooperate. The senses had denied to help. In response, she too had started denying to eat, sleep, walk, and talk . The old age had won. It had defeated the youth.
She would sit in the courtyard looking towards the sky oblivious of her daughter’s presence. Like a stranger, not knowing who she (her daughter) was? She could not put a finger on it, but could sense the presence of some kind of bond between the two. Both mother and daughter would sit for hours together. The daughter longing to be recognized by the mother, in hope of some conversation. The mother desperately trying to recognize the daughter, struggling to find words. One such day after sitting together for hours, the mother finally said, “I don’t know who you are? You look so beautiful. Who are you? You look so beautiful”.
Few days after that conversation, the mother denied to breathe. Finally she faded into eternity forever.
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