I went into the store room and found your old diary with snaps of your achievements. The heavy dust layers on those reminiscence were as old as I am. The diary bore a fountain pen, succumbed by the guilt of never being used again since the day I greeted this world. Only because I was born, you forgot your own self, mom?
You used to win badminton games with your siblings. I found your shuttle cock too in the filthy storeroom, mom.
You used to paint wonderful pictures in quick spans of time. I found your canvas too in the shadowy storeroom, mom.
You used to enchant papa with your melodious voice. I found your guitar with broken strings shedding tears in the storeroom, mom.
You used to click pictures of places you spent time with. I found your camera reels lying beneath the diary in the not so full storeroom, mom.
You used to coin your daily experiences in this trustful diary. I found your pen waiting for you in the storeroom to start over once again, mom.
Now that I am twenty one, I could discern the little girl hiding in you. Come on mom, be a girl again. Pick up the badminton and win against me. Pick up the brushes and paint me. Pick up the guitar and be my rock star. Pick up the camera and be my photographer. Come on mom, write your story once again with me.
Don’t let the girl in you die, mom! You have done enough for all of us selflessly, it is time to become selfish. Come on mom, be a girl again!