I have been raised by my mother, my father wasn’t there. I don’t blame him at all, life just played its part and our paths went in different directions. When that happened my mother garnered all the strength and wisdom she could muster to raise us four children on her own.

 The day my father left was horrible for everyone, my mother obviously felt it the worst. My brother’s Joe and My sister Loveness the older of the children also probably felt it more than my immediate elder brother Kay and Me. I think it is only right to say we all have different versions of that day.

 I know most of them think I don’t remember much but actually I do. I see the images from that day like a solemn movie playing in my head. It might have been many years ago, but that memory is vivid like it’s all happening right now.

 This is how I remember it:

 As I am looking over, trying to find meaning behind it all, I see a little boy, a naïve little boy, barely three years old. There is a smile on his pale face and some childish pep to his walk.

 I see him walk into a funeral home. In his left hand he holds some “toffee” sweets, some candy that is wrapped in a red, gold and white paper. His left hand is held by a woman leading him into this lament filled environment. There is a sweet in his mouth.

 The boy looks around the room and there are women lying on mats and some on the floor. Little soft sobs escape from the women and a faint smell of sweat and dust hits his nose.

 The boy then spots his mother. She is sitting on a mat in the corner surrounded by other women. She notices him too. Her reddened eyes seem to water again and tears effortlessly fall on her sullen face.

 She looks at the boy warmly and I see her open her arms for him to go to her. But the people there don’t want her to do that, they tell her not to call the boy. They hold him back for a minute.

 However, the mother insists. Then she cries even louder when the boy eventually walks over to her. Her voice is like a crescendo as other women’s sobs turn into deep wailing screams.

 She hugs him tightly and her tears stream even more. Her weeping however softens.

 As naïve as the boy is he loves her embrace. It is warm, safe, and neat. It is the kind of embrace that assures that all will be fine and nothing should be allowed to dispel that. It is an embrace of hope, of belief. The kind of hug that when given has power to overhaul any burden.

 The boy loves that hug. And he loves his mother for sharing that hug.

 He loves the hug.

 Because in that moment, even as naïve as the boy is, he knows that hug means a lot to his mother.

Yes I know it. I know it means a lot to her because she’s my mother. I’m that boy. And all this happened over 20 years ago on the day my father left us, the day of his funeral!


(My Intellect’s Loud And Noisy-MILAN)



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