Rolfie's Mother

And there she is, resting, like a small child, in the fetal position, Mother, I am afraid this isn't you, is it? I have many, well thousands of memories, none, or rather few have faded, vivid is what I would call the others, three dimensional, full of the colour that once was, always has been, you, my Mother. From the beginning when I looked at you, as you, smiling with anticipation, would come into the room, ready to take care of all my needs, me, the bright pretender, who, as often as it suited him, put on a show, acting too young, for reasons not revealed portrayed a midget of a boy whose stage of growth was not what could have been expected reasonably, given the truth of it. Yes Mother was a gem those days, no need would be too cumbersome, no cry ignored, she had this thing, this attitude of sheer infinity, as if all time had been reserved to care for that small gaggle of fresh kids, full of rambunctiousness and life, mischievous dimples in a private niche inside the Fatherland that nurtured all, yet would reluctantly agree to see backsides of them, so soon they went, to find another promised land, away and always it was Mother who would be the stalwart, a short-statured beacon in the sea. She always found the time, and more, and now and then she'd have a little too, just for herself, to brush her hair, to sing and it would make an even better one, resourceful and of talents yet possessed, the kiddoes knew about priorities, at such an early age, as Mother would engage into the depths of it, of subtle interaction, though never called it love, which surely and with overwhelming clarity it always was. The years have slipped away, you shrank, a bundle to be placed inside a home, where you again enjoyed a little time, just for yourself, to comb your hair, to sing and now and then you'd hear the doorbell, one would bring, a few bananas, overripe, and sit to shoot the breeze and reminisce. A pleasant life, the evening of it all, with time, and leisure on your hands, to study photographs and have, at night, those melancholy dreams, to see their smiles, and wake when first the sun would warm that snow white linen on your silent bed, a touch of gold it seemed had come, through regulation drapes to visit you. But it was never quite the same, you know. Without the silly patter of those little feet.