The Tiring Ride

Cold air came from the croaking air condition.

The loud TV blared out Arabic News.

The smell of dinner simmered

On the stove.

Garnished green beans

And the starchiness of white rice.

The odour of mother.

Two small boys sat still.

Ogle eyed

On the cold cracked tired tiles.

Their spines supported

By the stripped black and yellow couch,

The caress of its coarse cloth.

And mother

Sat higher.

A game it was.

And they took turns

Riding on her lap.

And they’d fall.

And then they’d laugh.

But mother,

With what energy she had

After a tall tiring day,

She ached to amuse

A toiling stone gargoyle.

On the sooty roof of Notre Dame.

And they could see her fire turn into tiredness.

But ride they did

But now they knew

That mother

Would do anything for them.

And slowly she etched herself forever

Into them.

And they learnt about suffering and sacrifice.

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