"Rock-a-bye baby in the tree top
when the wind blows the cradle will rock",
she whispers, lulling her baby to sleep.
Alas, no cradle was ever mine to keep.
Never known the touch of a mothers doting affection.
Or her careful tending, striving for perfection.
But truly mine are my musings and dream compilation.
Since you'll never know me, meet my imagination.
I’d imagine: you holding me close to your heart,
long tresses smell of jasmine after your bath .
Their wavy wet ends tickle my bare stomach,
you brush off the cold drops while we laugh amok.
I’d imagine: you reading me magical stories,
my dreams animated with elves and fairies.
You tying my pigtails before I run off to school
lest I am late again, breaking yet another rule.
I’d imagine: us dancing to the rhythm of the rain,
two frenzied pals, thoroughly jaded of being sane.
Your umbrella hops off after the capricious current,
unnoticed by us, in our abandoned excitement.
I’d imagine: you looking over me beaming with pride,
a mere replica of you dressed as a bride.
I imagined my whole life waiting for it to start,
when our hearts beat in synchrony, before being torn apart.
I stopped imagining because something felt awry.
You decided not to have me without batting an eye.
Being a girl deemed me cursed or imperfect with flaws?
In a promising moment i had imagined a life that never was.
Why didn't you keep me? Let me blossom and bloom?
You tired of me after a little while in your womb?
I'd forsake my dearest dreams to be held just once by you,
to lie by your side, even in a room that was painted blue.
Supriya Kamat is a freelance writer from the charming state of Goa. She is enamored of Goa and its harlequin complexion, and tries to epitomize it through her writing. When she’s not exploiting her creative writing proclivities, you can find her devouring a good book, handcrafting fashion jewellery, hypothesizing about what could have been or dreaming of gourmet food that she’d like to eat.
Picture Credits: Mother and Child, Mary Cassatt, Impressionism
