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.
On the cold cracked tired tiles.
Their spines supported
By the stripped black and yellow couch,
The caress of its coarse cloth.
A game it was.
And they took turns
Riding on her lap.
And they’d fall.
And then they’d laugh.
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
Would do anything for them.
And slowly she etched herself forever
And they learnt about suffering and sacrifice.