Over the last twelve months, I had frequently sat on the log, or next to it; near it. My tab, a stylus, a blanket to sit on, and a dream accompanied me there, last November. I remember slipping into slumber with a smile on my face, reminiscing. The smell of the rain-soaked soil and the whiff of wild Cyprus accompanied the gentle breeze, and I lazily opened my eyes to watch my mum stroll towards me, and sit down. Snuggling my head on her lap, we shared a few laughs.
Tears flooded down my face. I vainly attempted to fight back the wrenching sobs that had begun to master me. It was futile. I was lost. I was in pain. I lay down and crouched, clutching my legs close to my heart, the thudding head ache starting to get unbearable. And there she was again; my head was resting on her lap once more, and her soothing words quietened my broken heart.
We decided to have a little picnic. There was a new patch of moss on the elephant skinned centre of the log. It was the perfect seat, soft and comfortable, as we enjoyed herb scones and tea. Mum was reading my latest blog entry, a smile playing on her pearl pink lips. How beautiful she looked in her pastel - green sari with big, red, rose prints. Her brown eyes looked at me as I watched her. Her motherly hands, slightly wrinkled now, beckoned me to her. I sat at her side as she planted a kiss on my cheek and held my hand in hers.
“It’s a fantastic piece. You should send it out to some magazines or newspapers.” I clutched those words to my heart and locked them there, securely.
It became our regular haunt. Today we were sketching and painting. Mum on a chair, with a shawl wrapped around her delicate shoulders, as she painted on her canvas, every line perfect. One would never know that the log was something dead – discarded and left alone, abandoned from its heart and life. The painting said otherwise; you could see the moss thriving on it; the birds that visited it regularly were full of life, you could almost hear their trills, their bright colours perfectly set against the dark grey tree stump. And in front of it, there was me. How beautiful she had made me look. A strand of hair fell across my face; I sat cross-legged, busy sketching in a book that lay open in front of me. That evening, we stayed out until the sun set and then slowly made our way back home, my hand safe in my mum’s.
I saw the tremor in her hand as she wrote down recipes for me, and my whole life shook. With a catch in my throat I approached her.
It became our regular haunt. Today we were sketching and painting. Mum on a chair, with a shawl wrapped around her delicate shoulders, as she painted on her canvas, every line perfect. One would never know that the log was something dead – discarded and left alone, abandoned from its heart and life. The painting said otherwise; you could see the moss thriving on it; the birds that visited it regularly were full of life, you could almost hear their trills, their bright colours perfectly set against the dark grey tree stump. And in front of it, there was me. How beautiful she had made me look. A strand of hair fell across my face; I sat cross-legged, busy sketching in a book that lay open in front of me. That evening, we stayed out until the sun set and then slowly made our way back home, my hand safe in my mum’s.
I saw the tremor in her hand as she wrote down recipes for me, and my whole life shook. With a catch in my throat I approached her.
“Look Amma! I think we have a visitor today.”
She turned to see what I was pointing at. He was a chubby little fellow. And scared, he was quickly retreating into the hollow of the log. But curiosity must have got the better of him. He peeked again, smudged with the mud around him. I called to him quietly, picked him up and placed him on her lap. Her laughter was as beautiful as a child’s. She almost gurgled in glee. How many little secrets we had shared here! I never knew before, how much mum loved dogs. And here he was - her very own little Alsatian pup; my little gift to her. But her gift was more precious – her life, her secrets, her laughter, and her love! How much love she showered on me!
I promised to come here to learn and grow; to watch and live. Our visits to the log were more spaced now. I remember the last time we were there together. Mum insisted we spend the whole day out. She was beautiful as always, but paler and weaker. I remember clearly the warmth in her brown eyes as she gently spoke to me as if afraid she was running out of time to say everything she wanted to. We were leaning against our log, Bruno bounding along the garden chasing away at anything and nothing, triumphantly prancing back to us at intervals, seeking our attention, and finally sitting next to mum, as she gently ran her hands over his soft fur. I inched close to her and we wrapped ourselves in a single blanket, I rested my head on her shoulders, and kissed her soft cheeks. But mostly I listened to her - straining to imprint every word in my mind; I quenched my thirsty eyes by watching her; I desperately clung on to her wizened hands; I wanted this moment to last forever; I wanted every moment with her to last forever.
And here I am now; sitting next to our log. I close my eyes and I can feel her with me. She is in the wind and in every beautiful sight that meets my eye. I see the moss that has grown graciously over the log - adding such beauty to its stark greyness. I see it like I would see it with her. I will let the log go, when it wants to. I will not leave it abandoned, again.
She turned to see what I was pointing at. He was a chubby little fellow. And scared, he was quickly retreating into the hollow of the log. But curiosity must have got the better of him. He peeked again, smudged with the mud around him. I called to him quietly, picked him up and placed him on her lap. Her laughter was as beautiful as a child’s. She almost gurgled in glee. How many little secrets we had shared here! I never knew before, how much mum loved dogs. And here he was - her very own little Alsatian pup; my little gift to her. But her gift was more precious – her life, her secrets, her laughter, and her love! How much love she showered on me!
I promised to come here to learn and grow; to watch and live. Our visits to the log were more spaced now. I remember the last time we were there together. Mum insisted we spend the whole day out. She was beautiful as always, but paler and weaker. I remember clearly the warmth in her brown eyes as she gently spoke to me as if afraid she was running out of time to say everything she wanted to. We were leaning against our log, Bruno bounding along the garden chasing away at anything and nothing, triumphantly prancing back to us at intervals, seeking our attention, and finally sitting next to mum, as she gently ran her hands over his soft fur. I inched close to her and we wrapped ourselves in a single blanket, I rested my head on her shoulders, and kissed her soft cheeks. But mostly I listened to her - straining to imprint every word in my mind; I quenched my thirsty eyes by watching her; I desperately clung on to her wizened hands; I wanted this moment to last forever; I wanted every moment with her to last forever.
And here I am now; sitting next to our log. I close my eyes and I can feel her with me. She is in the wind and in every beautiful sight that meets my eye. I see the moss that has grown graciously over the log - adding such beauty to its stark greyness. I see it like I would see it with her. I will let the log go, when it wants to. I will not leave it abandoned, again.
