_MOTHER_

_—


You held my hand as we walked down the market road, crowded by dust
and haggling. Our silence, constantly penetrated by the market’s
noise, was the only connection we had left.


You clutched at my little fingers as if trying to suckle out the
memories we made. I held on to yours, seeking for memories of the days
I came to the market on your back, cackling as you made negotiations.
The memories are buried in the silence, like the soulful moments we
had.

The air whispered songs to me; of Papa’s fierce fists, and of his
overbearing rage. The air hit your hair, mildly, playfully, something
I never saw Papa do.


I did not have to ask. I just followed as we took turns at the market.
I recognised the path. We were going to meet the clay pot seller, the
one that sold you the pot that Papa smashed on your head, and almost
took you from me. She was just down the market and we were going to
get another pot. I could hear it in the silence.


_—What size do you want?_ The trader asked. _—Enough to cook for three._ I told her when you wouldn’t reply. Then she handed it over to me, and
you paid.

_—Where is my money?_ I was surprised to hear her ask that after collecting money from you.

_—Hasn’t... she... paid?_ I said, slowly. Then she asked _—who?_


I looked at my side and you weren’t there. You were still buried by the pot that Papa drove into your head. You were still six feet away from me, yet some minutes ago, you were holding my hand; reminding me
of the old days that were never good, but never lacking of the
rumbling of your laughter.


It still echoes mother,  the laughter, and it hurts.

Princely X_