Redhya

my mother a recreational collector she collects poly bags, plastic bottles, traumas, and at last her shattered self. a kitchen cabinet has been stuffed with an overlooked pile of translucent polymer bags, ropes, and empty mineral water bottles. perhaps, the rubbish pile reminds her of my childhood - the fading memories and her other progenies whom she couldn’t keep close. they had to be weaned off comfort. not her children but at least, she’s got her bags and bottles at one place. at some point in our lives, we knew each other better than ourselves. in my mind, her patterns were engraved; the way she’d say my name was the clue to her following sentence. we were experiences - consciousness magic - an evolutionary miracle wherein the creation and the creator had admired each other for some moments before she got old and wrinkled and i - estranged.