Belated Mother's Day
My mother was sitting in her favorite place
The main door was ajar
I pushed the door and went inside
I heard my mother arguing with the gardener
He planted the roses in a spot he had chosen
My mother wanted him to plant it somewhere else
They always argue, but he always winsI kissed her forehead and sat beside her
I was watching the gardener
He must be in his late sixties
He had dark skin and rough hands
He was more an artist than a gardener
The sweat was dropping from his forehead on the soil
Maybe that was why our garden was the best garden in the neighborhood
The fertile soil was watered with his sweatI was tired, it was a long day
I sat beside my mother and held her hand
Would all mothers have soft hands like hers?
She had the softest hands I've ever touched
I leaned on her tiny shoulder
Her silver hair smelled Saboon Raqi*
I must have taken a napI've heard a voice saying: Why did I come back?
There is nothing left there
People had left the city
It is a ghost city
You have to leave; the city has been invaded by killers
Killers and rapist are loose in the streets
People have left their homes and those who stayed are scared to leave
Children live with fear
Children have lost their future
Blood is covering the city
I could smell something
Is it a smell of blood?I opened my eyes
My two boys were standing besides my bed holding a white box
I opened the box
There was a white pajama, a yellow robe and pink petals were spread on it
I heard their voice wishing me happy mother's dayIn another country, mothers don't celebrate this day and other days
They mourn the death of their country
They mourn the death of their lost ones
They mourn the death of their dreamsHappy belated mother's day for those who celebrate it and others who don't
* Olive oil soap
© Copyright 2006 by AxisofLogic.com
Nesreen Melek is an Iraqi woman, a mother and poet, who lives in Canada. It is very easy for us to become caught up in our busy-ness, working to end a war in a land we have never seen. Nesreen brings us back to the realities of why we protest, organize, write and publish. When we begin thinking of war as some sort of drama being acted out in a land we have never been, Nesreen reminds us of the children, mothers and fathers. She reminds us of the terrible details of what war means ... the lost child trying to find a familiar face, the shocked mother, staggering aimlessly down a cratered street ... the father, staring in disbelief at the body of his child in the back of a pickup truck. Nesreen Melek can be reached at: n_melek@hotmail.com
More poems by Nesreen Melek
To The Father in Fallujah Who Buried His Son in His Garden
To The Father in Fallujah Who Buried His Son in His Garden
To My American Friend, With Love