If I'd be a mother someday,
I'll turn back to look at mine.
I'll observe her soundless steps,
Her messy bun, her drooping lashes,
And yet the twinkle in her eyes.
I'd recollect all the moments of beauty and bounty,
In the pages of the album,
And maybe consider pinning up my pleats and
Spinning a jingle, while preparing the recipes that I've inherited from Her.
And for the bittersweet anecdotes of annoyance,
Raised voices, stifled dreams and sour longings,
I'll flip through my notebook
And make amends in my turn.

If I'd be a mother someday,
I'll learn to mother a different way.
Maybe I'll learn to gather the pieces of my heart, when my birdies shall fly away;
I'd make sure to saturate my ears with their glee at dinner,
Celebrate springs before they give in to May.
I'd open the doors and windows,
And walk them to the other side of the street,
And put up a straight face upon returning alone,
Only to clear up rooms and drawers years later
And drown myself in my own tears.

If I'd be a mother someday,
I'd sit on the stairs, just like my mother,
Losing my sleep to worry over my empty nest,
But I'll collect all the fallen twigs in a basket,
Which shall be buried along with my casket.
Yet, I'd walk the same soundless footsteps,
In a messy bun with drooping lashes,
And end up mothering, not so like a replica,
Rather a reflection of hers.

On a rainy June afternoon, I'll put my kids to sleep,
And rest my head on her lap, on the age-old stairs.
I'd look at the points where her contours and wrinkles meet,
And wonder if she had a notebook like me.
And maybe that day I'll decipher
The rationale of her affection,
The rhyme scheme of her lullaby,
Her tragic urge to hold me so tight.
If I'd be a mother someday,
Maybe I'll look at her differently,
Rather, as a woman who has mothered,
From the eyes of a mother.

© Pratiksha Saikrishna