Mother, you can lift me up in the little
nip of Saint Louis Napoleon that you had
each day before you bed. I know the spiritedness
in your travails, Mother; much like the spirit I
borrowed from you – your unacknowledged energy,
your unrequited sacrifice. I am a Braille child now
in understanding you, because I need to perceive difficulty
to see your true honour and dignity, not just obvious
black and white. So, I dance in your memory, Mother, I
pirouette in the remembrance of your infinite grace.
Would anyone be subservient to the beauty of duty to love
as you, where the loyalty to duty was greater than the sentiment
of love?! What is it that I gain from you but the exemplariness
of carrying out day to day, and moment by moment? If duty was
the hardest mountain to climb would we desist? No! We were mountaineers
who dared all! I am a dragon of duty like you, Mother,
just like you were and Dad was; where does it come from this honour
in service, but in the seeding that the Universe destined for us!
I am grateful for this privilege, Mother, in a discontinuity
at this juncture, but a promise that continuity will be re-established, Mother,
someday in sometime, when fate will understand our true worthiness!
