If I have one day, one more day, Mother. I want to return to that day.
I loathe him, I loathe my father. Your husband who took you away from me. But he can’t take my memories of you.
Mother, I can still remember it; your dress, the taste of your sugar cookies, the sweet cold lemon tea that you made. And your hand, brushing my hair back.
How young was I, mother? It doesn’t matter does it? I loved you since I can mumble your name, and that will never change.
I just want to go back to that day, mother. When it’s just you and me, and our rattan picnic basket. When he was away, that wretched man, I can’t believe he had a part in creating me-- I don’t think so, mother, I think it was you, just you, you were the one who kissed me when I was blood red, newly birthed, and my cries the declaration of love for you.
I want to return to that day mother. If I can have one day, just one more day. You, me and our rattan picnic basket. Your smile, calling my nickname after I kissed you on the cheek.
