Petrichor

Over the years of serious solitude, I have developed this habit of looking out of the window, trying to connect to the rest of the world. The tiny droplets of water that dauntlessly came through the clouds, have now rested on the glass shade of the window; still travelling to congregate to the ground. Those minuscule still divided and so my mind. She succeded in understanding the sad state I was in. Mothers can read minds, you see. I opened the window; the zephyrs entering my dark den, forcing some rain drops inside . My coffee gradually cooled as the fumes touched the lining of my coat. Mother is the only one I could converse with transcending my anxieties and fear. She is solution to everything: the talisman of relief, realisation and love. I can still feel the thousand kisses that have been showered on me, unnecessarily sometimes, which she is quite adept at giving. The whispered "Happy Birthday!" mornings and yes, the shimmer in her eyes, even if she recieved the most stained and ugly cards for her birthday, are still most rejuveneting of all experiences and feelings.

All this while, the open window had allowed shands of rain to wet the carpet, which appeared to be kind of an elixir to the temperament of the room, I thought. Alas, my friend had been talking to me for quiet sometime now in vain, until now that I heard the last question he did to me.

"......Your coming to this room so often, makes me wonder, what still connects you to the person who is no more now, for more than six years?..."

"Petrichor!"

By now, the rain had managed to flood every place nearby and even my heart with her memories, all over again.

Happy Birthday, Ma!